


Filled with Gold

by December_Daughter



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December_Daughter/pseuds/December_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Little Talks. </p><p>Every couple has a unique set of obstacles in their relationship, but Felicity feels like maybe her and Oliver are going a little overboard: the man who attacked her is still on the loose, she may or may not be in danger, and her boyfriend is also her boss - who moonlights as a vigilante. Let it never be said that Felicity Smoak does things by halves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She needs coffee; more coffee, and then maybe a little more … lots of coffee. She hasn't had enough coffee. The problem is that she's at work, and while Queen Consolidated may be a powerhouse in the corporate world – which it still is, minus a few bumps in the road after the discovery of Moira's part in Merlyn's scheme – the one thing that the big QC does skimp on is coffee. They probably buy in bulk, which she can't really fault them for since they employ so many people, but if there is one thing she is an admitted snob about it's coffee; there is no way she's going to let that swill pass her lips, no matter how desperate for java may be. Unfortunately, Felicity thinks that she passed desperate about an hour ago.

She's pretty certain that her fellow employees at Queen Consolidated got together over the weekend and devised a heinous plot to crash the company servers just to screw with her workload, because her phone has been ringing non-stop since the moment she arrived – twenty minutes early, no less – this morning. In fact, things are such a mess for her department right now that she's currently making her way down one of the long office hallways and to the office of the Chief Information Officer because said officer had tried all of the usual tricks and then called Felicity, exasperated and threatening to throw the computer out of the window. Felicity hadn't known whether to laugh or be horrified. She's never met the CIO before, has never even had cause to run into her in passing in the hallways, but if the phone call had been anything to go by then Felicity thinks that the woman must have at least some semblance of a sense of humor. Which she hopes will turn out to be true, because Felicity really doesn't like dealing with people who are both powerful and humorless – it just isn't a good combination.

Felicity is well known and easily recognizable to her fellow employees, partly because her department is the one they always call with their computer problems, and partly because she's the only member of the IT department who's remotely social with her coworkers; networking is useful in places outside the internet, too. That familiarity means that trying to make her way quickly across the floor can be something of a feat sometimes, because she's bound to run into people who want to chat and ask her about her weekend, which she wouldn't mind doing if it wasn't the CIO of the company waiting on her. She calls out a few hellos as she goes and promises a few people to swing by for a quick chat once she's done with her errand. She's been rather busy lately – busier than usual, even – so she hasn't been out to visit with her work friends in awhile, and it'll be nice to catch up with them. Maybe, if she gets really lucky and the day takes a swing in the right direction, she'll even be able to slip out for a minute after all this and hit up the coffee shop down the street for another java fix.

She slows from her speed walk into a gait that looks – and feels – only slightly slower as she approaches the CIO's secretary.

"Hi, I'm Felicity Smoak," she says, smiling as she approaches. "From the IT department, I'm …"

The woman behind the desk smiles and waves her toward the door. "Ms. Edge is expecting you – I don't think she's tossed the computer yet."

"Well let's hope not, or I just gave myself shin splints for nothing."

Felicity hears the secretary – she'll have to stop and get her name on the way out – chuckle as she pauses to knock on the door and then let herself in when a voice calls for her to enter.

"Ms. Edge?" Felicity asks as she steps into the office.

"Technology hates me," a disgruntled voice answers.

Felicity smiles automatically in response, because the other woman sounds like she really believes that statement. Ms. Edge – Felicity isn't sure, but she thinks her first name is Alicia – is standing behind her office chair, both elbows resting against the black leather, and massaging her temples. She doesn't look much older than Felicity, maybe only ten or twelve years, and though her hair and dark blue suit scream of professionalism there is an openness to her expression that makes her seem friendly rather than menacing. Felicity takes in all this information in the time it takes her to cross the room to stand next to the other woman.

"No it doesn't," she assures the other woman. "Sometimes the computers just get a little moody. Do you mind?"

"Work your magic."

Ms. Edge steps away from her chair and over to a small table against the wall that looks to hold coffee mugs and several boxes. Felicity drops into the chair – and  _damn_  is it comfortable – and her fingers immediately start clacking away at the keys, filling the silence in the room with a steady drumming.

"Can I get you anything?" the CIO offers after a few minutes. "Water? Tea?"

The offer catches Felicity off guard, because this is one of the company big wigs and she's just a computer grunt, but when she glances at the woman who is technically one of her bosses all she sees is an earnest expression and a bit of a smile.

"Uh, you wouldn't happen to have something that qualifies as real coffee, would you? Not that I'm complaining about the company coffee, of course, because that's not what I meant, it's just …" she's rambling before she can stop herself.

"Shit," Ms. Edge cuts in, smiling wider now.

"Sorry?"

"Shit – the company coffee is shit," she says knowingly. "I have a French press and some dark Colombian coffee, if you've got a minute."

"Ms. Edge, you've just become my favorite person."

She laughs. "Please, call me Alicia. Real coffee, coming right up."

Now the sounds of Felicity's typing is accompanied by the sound of Alicia preparing coffee, and it's only a few minutes later that the roomy office is filled with the tantalizing smell of fresh coffee. Felicity finishes restoring the last of the computer's settings and turns to stand just in time to see Alicia headed her way with two coffee mugs.

"Keep your seat," Alicia tells her, setting one of the mugs down on the desk in front of Felicity.

"Where are you gonna sit?" Felicity queries.

Alicia just smiles and sets down her mug before sliding – rather gracefully, Felicity notices – up onto her desk. "Don't tell," she commands, but her tone is teasing.

"Secret's safe with me," Felicity assures her as she picks up the coffee mug.

She fully anticipates singeing at least half of her taste buds because she's too impatient to wait for it to cool before taking a drink, and though it's still on the overly warm side there is no singeing. Felicity sighs happily, because not only are her taste buds safe, but also this coffee is  _ridiculously_  delicious.

"This is exactly what I needed, Alicia, thank you."

"No problem."

"Your computer's fixed, too; just needed to restore a few settings."

"So no flying lessons for it today, then. Too bad, I was kinda looking forward to watching it fall."

Felicity laughs. The two women continue to talk as they enjoy their coffee, establishing a relationship that's closer to a friendship than an acquaintance, which is kinda surprising because they've only just met. Felicity really likes Alicia, though, with her honest face and sharp suit and ready smile. They talk and laugh around their coffee for long minutes, until their mugs are empty and Felicity realizes that she's been here for longer than she should have been and people are probably looking for her to fix their computers. When she thanks Alicia and goes to excuse herself, the CIO insists on refilling her mug with the rest of the coffee and telling her to bring the mug back tomorrow morning for a refill. Pleasantly surprised with the events of the last hour, Felicity lets herself out of the office with a smile.

"Well, I didn't hear any shattering glass," Alicia's secretary says when Felicity is close enough.

"Nope. Crisis averted. I'm Felicity, by the way; sorry I couldn't introduce myself properly earlier."

"Don't worry about it. I'm Genevieve, but most people call me Vivi."

As much as Felicity would like to stay and talk – and she really would, because Vivi seems as amiable as her boss – she really does need to finish making her rounds before someone actually does toss a computer out a window, so she politely excuses herself and steps back out into the hustle and bustle of Queen Consolidated.

Most of her day passes this way. She's stopped by several people on her rounds who need help resolving little issues, and a few that are having problems communicating with the company servers; Felicity helps them all with patience and a smile, drinking her coffee as she goes. Some of the people she's known for awhile stop her just to say hi and ask how she's doing, and since she's out in the open now and can be found she allows herself to mingle without worrying about having somewhere else to be.

By the time she finally makes it back to her office it's nearly one in the afternoon and her stomach is angrily demanding some kind of sustenance. She sets her mug-that-isn't-quite-hers on the corner of her desk and retrieves her lunch pail; she has a chicken salad and sweet tea today, and she's just barely set both out on her desk when her phone rings. She groans and shoots a glare at the thing before picking it up with a friendly greeting that is in direct opposition to her hunger induced irritation. Luckily it's just someone with a connectivity issue, easily fixed in just a few seconds over the phone, and she's once again focused on her salad.

Only now, alone in her office amidst the familiar whir of her computers and servers, does Felicity allow herself to relax; only now does she allow her thoughts to turn to things that aren't work related – like her new duplex. She'd only moved in two weeks ago and at least half of her stuff is still packed in boxes stacked at random intervals through the rooms, but she already loves it there. It's bigger than her old apartment, newer, and she's paying the same price as she had for the other one. There's also the added bonus of it being a duplex and not an apartment in an apartment building, which is great because it allows for a little more privacy – something that is necessary when you're trying to keep your relationship with your boss slash vigilante-with-a-playboy-cover boyfriend a secret.

Things with her and Oliver had really only changed a little more than a month ago, so things are still new and they haven't quite figured out how this aspect of their relationship will affect all the facets of their lives, including the ones they're trying to keep secret – like their "extracurricular" activities in the arrow cave. Felicity isn't really sure if Digg knows, because she certainly hasn't told him and she doesn't really think Oliver is the type to bring up those sorts of things in casual conversation. Then again, she's not really even sure Oliver has casual conversations with Digg – although she assumes he must. At any rate, she's still enjoying the newness of a relationship that she never really thought would happen, and she doesn't mind if the knowledge stays just between her and Oliver for a little while longer. They'll have to let the cat out of the bagger sooner or later, of course, and while she can't predict how much backlash - or what kind - she's in for, she knows that it's coming; she doesn't have to invite it in yet, however, and she doesn't plan to. Both she and Oliver were aware when they started this relationship that it would be complicated, and they both agreed now that it couldn't hurt to hold off those complications for as long as they could while they got to know each other as something more than friends.

Even the impending obstacles and backlash couldn't do much to tame the butterflies, though; any time her thoughts strayed, even for a second, into the territory of Oliver, her chest would start to feel both light and full, as if she were a balloon being filled to maximum capacity and straining to be released into the sky. The idea that they were  _something more_ was almost to much for her mind to grasp, and then it would occur to her (again, as if it was a completely new realization) that she was now free to kiss him, to hold his hand, and she'd have to remind herself that she _could not_ bunny hop excitedly in public. Which is why she doesn't allow herself to think about their relationship in public anymore.

She's just finished her salad and is enjoying the last of her tea when her desk phone rings again. She makes a face at the offending item, as if it is solely responsible for the day's computer issues, and then answers it with her usual polite business greeting.

Felicity's heart starts beating double time when the voice on the other line identifies as Oliver's secretary and half-asks, half-commands her to report to the CEO's office because his computer has 'gone on the fritz and Mr. Queen needs it for his meeting." She manages to answer, although she has no idea what she actually says, and by the time she hangs up the phone she thinks her face is fuchsia because she's blushing so fiercely. They haven't been avoiding each other at work, but this will be the first time that they've really been around each other in the workplace since becoming ... well, she supposes significant others is the correct term, but it sounds so ... strange. Then again, calling Oliver her significant other is more acceptable than 'boyfriend' - she doesn't know why, but that word sounds strangely juvenile and insignificant, especially in reference to Oliver.

_Enough of that_ , she tells herself,  _you've got work to do_.

She moves through the company halls with the same quickness she'd shown on the way to Alicia's office, and she's actually grateful for the physical exertion. By the time she's rounding the corner to Oliver's office, which is all glass walls and minimalist furniture, she feels like the floating feeling in her chest has lessened enough to be more of a nuisance than a hindrance.

Oliver's secretary waves her in, and Felicity is already pushing the glass door open when she realizes that Oliver is in a meeting that very moment, and that it's taking place in his office. Surprised, she falters in the doorway for one long moment before Oliver glances away from the two men in front of her and gives her the tiniest smile. Ridiculously enough, that tiny smile makes her feel like her insides are being attacked by vicious butterflies.

She's crossing the room toward his desk, face calm and impassive (she hopes), and hears him excuse himself to his guests before addressing her.

"Ms. Smoak, thank you for coming so quickly."

"Of course, Mr. Queen. What seems to be the problem?"

He explains the problem and her brain automatically switches into what Kylie likes to call 'techno-geek' mode. When she politely tells him that he's sort of in her way he immediately excuses himself and sweeps out of his chair, motioning for her to have a seat instead. Her fingers are already flying across the keyboard when the conversation picks back up, and it takes her a long time to realize that Oliver hasn't moved: he's still standing on her left, out of the way of the computer, and he has one elbow braced against the back of the chair. She wonders, briefly, why he didn't just have another chair brought in - or, better yet, move their discussion to the couches in front of the windows. She can't be sure but it sounds like they're talking money and investments, so maybe he thought the couches would be too informal. Either way, she works a little faster.

Well, she tries anyway; for whatever reason, the computer has stopped talking to the company servers and no longer recognizes them as a secure and trusted network, so it's locked out more than half of the executive files as a safety precaution. Felicity had designed the program herself, so she knows how to reset and unlock everything, but it's going to take longer than she wants and there's no way to implement a temporary work around to get Oliver through the rest of his meeting.

Well, there is one last thing she can try.

"Excuse me. Mr. Queen," she interrupts. "May I use your phone?"

"Of course."

She calls her counterpart - one of the only other IT workers on shift with her today - and almost groans aloud when Eric Pyper answers the phone. Felicity doesn't have the best relationship with Eric, who is several years older than her and one of the most abrasive people she's ever met. He's decent with computers, although he has to work harder at it than she does; he seems to not only realize this, but hold it against her. Their interactions are generally limited, but what few they do have are in no way pleasant. Hell, they barely manage to remain civil. This is not going to be fun.

She very calmly tells him who he's talking to, and as soon as she's said her name she can almost feel the change in his demeanor over the phone. Why is this happening to her?

Softly, so that she doesn't interrupt Oliver - and also so they don't overhear her - she explains the situation and what she wants to do. Eric, of course, sounds nothing less than irritated; she makes sure to mention that it's for the CEO and that seems to make him cooperate, at least.

"Did you reset it?" she asks when he tells her he's done.

"No."

"You have to reset it to make sure it worked."

"No you don't."

She inhales deeply to keep herself from rolling her eyes. "Yes, Eric, you do."

"If I reset then it's gonna take at least five minutes to restart and reinstall. The work day is almost over, just wait and do it after hours."

"Did you miss the part where I said this is Mr. Queen's computer?" she bites out, irritated and maybe a little more sarcastic than she intended.

"Felicity ..."

Oh, she is so not fighting him on this right now! Of all the times for him to be a disagreeable asshole ... "Eric! Reset the damn server!"

She's trying to sound as forceful as she can without actually raising her voice, but she's so frustrated that she's practically hissing the words into the handset. When she hears Eric mumble a grudging, "fine, it's reset", she barely manages to bite out a thank you before hanging up. She doesn't intend to look up, but when she does she realizes that she's alone in the office; Oliver and the other two gentleman are nowhere to be seen. She feels both relieved and a little perturbed at knowing that Oliver's meeting may have been cut short because of a computer error, but there's nothing else she could have done about it. Sometimes computers have a mind of their own.

The system has rebooted and she's hard at work making sure everything is set up the way it needs to be when she catches movement out of the corner of her eye; Oliver has reappeared and is already halfway across the room, headed right for her.

"Sorry about your meeting," she tells him, glancing away from the computer as she does so.

"Don't be, it went well."

She's not really paying attention when he comes to stand next to her, putting his back to the door and leaning against the edge of the desk. In fact, it takes her a good minute to realize that he's watching her.

"What?" she queries, suddenly self conscious.

"You left your hair down."

Felicity doesn't know what to say to that, partly because she'd forgotten that it wasn't in a ponytail, and partly because it hadn't occurred to her that Oliver might notice.

She shrugs. "Didn't feel like putting it up this morning."

"It looks good," he says after a long silence. "You look good. Beautiful."

He stumbles a little over the last bit, as if he's unsure of himself - or whether or not he should anything - and Felicity has to remind herself that there's every possibility that he's just as nervous about their relationship as she is. Sure, he's dated since he's been back from the island, but two of the three women he's been with were people he'd known previously and one had been ... well, Helena. Felicity is the first woman that Oliver has dated who not only knows his secret, but doesn't look at him and expect to see some trace of a man from almost a decade ago. So yeah, maybe he's just as nervous as she is, and maybe she finds that just a little endearing.

"Thank you," she answers gently, deciding against pointing out that (besides her hair) she looks the same as she always does. "Your computer should be fixed now."

He looks away from her - because he's been watching her this whole time, and that gives her a serious case of butterflies - and she can see the business mask slip back into place. The change isn't complete, at least not in her eyes, because Felicity thinks she might have a PhD in reading Oliver's face and body language; still, she knows that it's time to get back to business for now.

"Call if you have any more problems," she tells him, standing and giving him back his chair.

"I will. Thank you."

When she gets back to her office, Felicity is relieved to find that her work day is almost over. In fact, she only receives two more calls before the clock is telling her that it's time to pack up and go home. Well, in her case, it's telling her it's time to go to the foundry, but that place is really sort of a second home to her now anyway.

She arrives first, which isn't a surprise since she knows that Digg won't arrive until right before Oliver does. She keeps herself busy scanning the news and police channels, looking for anything that sends up a red flag. She's always done this sort of information gathering, but she'd be lying if she didn't admit to a certain sense of hyper-vigilance these days; while he has apparently decided to leave her alone, the man calling himself Lord Tennyson is still loose somewhere in the world, and she doesn't think anything will make her forget that. They don't have much information to go on - in fact, they've got practically nothing, and yet she always finds herself holding her breath just a little when she learns of any type of break-in or attack that seems remotely similar to her own. She tells Oliver and Digg that she's doing better, and that's not a lie, but she'll never have that naivety again now that she knows she can't hide behind that excuse of "that won't happen to me". Now, she has vigilance.

Digg arrives first, as she expected, and they talk for a little while about trivial things while the police scanner drones on in the background. She enjoys hearing about Digg and Carly and she's made some pretty good headway with getting him to open up and talk about things; she likes knowing that, despite the obstacles and complications they face, they make each other happy. Felicity considers Digg a close friend, and she likes knowing that there is someone to love and support him outside of their little vigilante family.

Felicity wonders again if Digg knows that she and Oliver have taken their relationship out of friend territory. He's not blind, but they've been doing what she considers a good job of keeping their professional and private lives separate, so she won't be surprised if he doesn't know. Maybe he suspects something and just hasn't brought it up - or doesn't care to - because he at least knows that for awhile there she was staying at the mansion. There were also those few days at her old apartment after the second attack when she'd been unable to sleep unless it was on or against Oliver.

That is one thing that hasn't changed in the last month or so: Felicity still has a difficult time sleeping when Oliver isn't around, which is (regrettably) rather often.

Oliver looks tired when he shows up. They go over a few news reports and some of the police dispatches as a team, but she knows she isn't imagining the relief that sweeps through the room when they collectively decided to call it an early night. Sometimes they all just need a little downtime.

Digg is quick to leave and Felicity calls a warm goodnight over her shoulder as she shuts down her computers. She stands as the screens turn themselves off; she's trying to decide if she wants to make some tea and take a bath, or order a pizza and have a few beers - ooh, or maybe some wine - while she catches up on her television shows when a thick arm wraps around her waist. Her heart rate accelerates wildly and her stomach flops and then she can feel the heat and solidarity of Oliver's chest against her back. She's trying her best not to smile, but it's hard when there's nothing but pure exhilaration thrumming through her veins.

Felicity straightens, pressing more fully against that broad chest, and then Oliver is dropping a kiss against the skin of her neck just above her shirt collar. She thinks maybe she should be irritated that this man can turn her insides into puree with such a tiny action, but she enjoys it too much to care.

She is learning, bit by bit, that Oliver is more affectionate than she'd realized - more than he's ever let on. She likes it.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asks quietly.

"I haven't decided yet. I was thinking of ordering pizza and watching t.v."

"Am I invited?"

"Are you bringing wine?" she counters.

He huffs a laugh, his warm breath ghosting over her shoulder and into her hair. He can't be comfortable, but his head is still bent over her shoulder.

"Yes?" It sounds like a question.

"Then you're invited."

He presses a kiss against the skin in front of her ear; she feels the sudden urge to kiss him then, kiss him for real like she only does when they're alone, so she turns in his hold and finds that he has the same thought. They move for each other, her rising up and him leaning down, and then nothing else matters outside of his lips. She's a little shy at first, just a firm press of lips, but then his free hand curls around the curve of her jaw and the tiniest flick of his tongue against her upper lip ignites a fire. She parts her lips, brushes her tongue against his and feels a tingle of elation at the way he pulls her closer; Oliver is gentle, careful, even as the hand that isn't on her face tightens it's hold on her hip.

Felicity pulls away first because, no matter how much she likes their height difference, her shins are burning and her head feels heavy. Well, the head thing might be because Oliver has just literally kissed her breathless; either way, the point still stands.

Oliver is watching her with dark, glittering eyes that make her want to shiver or blush - or both. His thumb strokes the skin of her cheek once, twice, and then he steps away and holds out one of his hands.

"Pizza and wine it is."

Her hand stays wrapped warmly in his until they get to the top of the stairs, when he squeezes it and she leans up to give him another (quick) kiss.

"Half an hour?" he asks, although that doesn't seem like nearly enough time for him to get the mansion and to her place.

"Sure. Pepperoni and pineapple?"

He nods minutely. "And breadsticks."

She smiles and watches him disappear out the door first, silently wondering how fast she can get home without getting arrested.

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Oliver wakes to the smell of citrus and something tickling his nose; he's disoriented for only a moment before he remembers where he is, and then he buries his face into the pale locks of Felicity's hair until his lips find the back of her neck. He knows she's still asleep because her breathing is even beneath the arm that is slung over her waist, so he kisses her softly and closes his eyes again. He doesn't need a clock to tell him that it's still early; today is Friday, a work day, and Felicity's alarm hasn't gone off yet so he has time. He likes this part of the day: early morning, before the rush and bustle of the world creeps in, when he can hear the steady rhythm of Felicity's breathing and feel the soft contours of her body pressed against his. Whatever happens later in the day, these moments are his – a small respite amongst the subterfuge and tight rope walking that is his double life.

He dozes off and on for a while, cocooned in the blankets and the warmth of the lithe body pressed against his; Oliver always sleeps better when he's with Felicity. He knows that some nights she still wakes from a nightmare with ragged breath and wild eyes, and he hates that he's not always able to be there when she does. They are being quiet about their relationship and he can't spend every night with her without Thea asking too many questions – she's already suspicious enough as it is when he leaves for the night without giving an answer to where he's going – and that's not even taking in to account the fact that Digg still acts like his bodyguard/driver. He doesn't want to imagine the look on the other man's face if Oliver were to ask him to pick him up from Felicity's one morning. For these reasons and more, he doesn't dare stay the night with her more than a few times a week, and even then he usually leaves early; Felicity even has two alarms set, one to wake him up so that he can slip out before the city wakes, and one to wake her so she can get ready for the day.

Oliver's not sure why, but that thought is the one that chases the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. Their relationship is still in its infancy and there's a lot of things that they haven't figured out yet, but Felicity's lack of expectations hasn't changed; even now that they're in a relationship, she doesn't ask him for more than he's willing to give. She doesn't ask him to stay over more - even though he knows that she still has nightmares and sleeps better when he's there; she doesn't question that he leaves early on the nights that he does stay over; she just curls closer into his side when he is there, and sets an alarm for him so that he can leave before the rest of the world wakes up.

As if on cue, the alarm on Felicity's nightstand lets loose with a loud and obnoxious beeping, entirely too excited to let the humans nearby know that it is now five-thirty in the morning.

Oliver doesn't even get the chance to move; Felicity is still half asleep and moves automatically, scooting away from him to reach out one slender arm and smash her palm against the button to stop the sound.

"'S fie-thirdy," she slurs, turning to face him as she does so.

Quite suddenly, Oliver feels as if an anvil has been dropped on his chest. Felicity's hair is mussed, a flaxen cloud against her blue pillowcase, and one arm is tucked beneath the pillow; the thin strap of her pajama top has slid down her arm and left the shoulder bare, and even in the semi-darkness of her room Oliver knows that her lips are a perfect shade of pink. Everything about this woman that is now his girlfriend is soft, unassuming – beautiful. This is intimacy - the privilege he's been granted - and he's about to slip out of this bed and step away from it.

He pulls her to himself until their chests are flush against one another and then curls a hand over her hipbone; she sighs softly, a quick gust of warm air over his skin, and tucks her head under his chin. They stay that way for several minutes, his thumb tracing circles into the thin material of her shorts, and Oliver seriously considers making up some excuse for them to stay in bed all day, responsibilities be damned. He thinks that maybe he would have succeeded, too, if he was someone other than the CEO, and he entertains himself for a bit by imagining what they would do if he and Felicity could spend a day playing hooky. He thinks about all the ways they could entertain themselves without leaving the bed, and then has to stop thinking about it when his body threatens to have a very noticeable reaction to the images being presented. He doesn't have anything but imagination to go on, because he's waiting for the green light from Felicity and he doesn't want to rush her in any way, but even just the idea of her naked and wanting beneath him is enough to cause a problem.

Oliver watches the clock over her bare shoulder. Five minutes before her alarm is set to go off he scoots back and away from her enough to drop his lips to her shoulder and press a kiss to the rounded tip; he kisses a trail across her clavicle and up her neck before finally pressing one against the smooth petals of her lips.

"Wake up," he murmurs against them. She hums and it makes him smile, so he gives her another kiss before shaking her hip lightly. "Your alarm is about to go off."

"Hate alarms," she mumbles, but then those dark lashes of hers are fluttering and her crystal blue eyes are looking at him.

"Tomorrow is Saturday," he says reassuringly. "You can sleep in as late as you want then."

She blinks a few times, and he knows that she's awake and coherent when her eyes widen in surprise. "You're still here." It's not a question.

"I am," he answers, giving her a tiny nod of affirmation. "And we're having breakfast."

Her gaze is searching; curious. He waits for her to ask him why he's still here, why he didn't slip out when the first alarm went off, like he usually does. He waits for the question, and wonders what answer he can give – what answer he should give. The simple truth is that he couldn't make himself crawl out of the bed that has been warmed by their bodies –  _theirs, together_ ; that the sight of her vulnerable and relaxed had struck him in a way that he's still not sure he understands. Oliver is the only one who gets to see her like that – like this: natural and unguarded. Leaving had simply been impossible, but he's not sure if he should tell her that – yet.

The question never comes, though. She just smiles at him, a soft upturn of her lips, and rolls onto her back to stretch. He can't ignore the opportunity she's presented him with, so he leans over and flutters his fingers against the ticklish spot over her ribs and has to duck out of the way of the elbow that snaps down in response.

"Oliver!" she half whines, half chides, and it makes him chuckle as he pulls himself out of bed.

"Get in the shower," he answers. "I'm making breakfast."

He can hear her grumbling as he lets himself out of the bedroom and makes his way into the kitchen. This place is bigger than her last one, probably because it's a duplex and not an apartment, and he likes it; it's basically just half of a house, so she doesn't have anyone above or below her – her only neighbors are the ones next door. She's only been here a few weeks so half of her stuff is still in boxes, which he plans to help her unpack this weekend, but she's unearthed the essentials (like dishes). The one thing he didn't consider was whether or not her fridge was stocked, which could prove to derail his plans for making her breakfast.

To his relief, one of the few things Felicity has in her fridge is a carton of eggs and a half- gallon of orange juice; there's a new loaf of bread on the counter next to her microwave, so it looks like eggs and toast are on the menu.

Oliver has never made Felicity breakfast – or any meal, for that matter – so it occurs to him that he doesn't know how he likes her egg or toast as he's setting out the breakfast materials. He calls her name but doesn't get an answer, so he starts toward the bedroom and then redirects when he hears the distinct rush of water.

He raps his knuckles against the door. "Felicity? How do you like your eggs?"

"What?"

"I said …"

"I can't hear you, Oliver. Just open the door!"

He pushes the door open and gets hit in the face with a wave of steam, which he promptly waves away. Oliver opens his mouth to repeat his question when his eyes fall on the shower curtain, and the words die on his tongue. Felicity's shower curtain is covered in splashes of pastel colors, and there's a recessed light above the shower itself, so the sight he's greeted with is the silhouette of her body; he can trace her contours perfectly with his eyes, from the bend of her arms where they're raised next to her head to the perfect curve of a breast.

A tendril of heat curls low in his belly and the hand that he has around the doorknob tightens automatically. This was a bad idea, because right now all he can think about is climbing into that shower and …

"Oliver?" she queries, and hearing her say his name just makes his desire flare.

"How do you like your eggs?" he repeats, and almost congratulates himself on how even his voice sounds.

"Oh, um, scrambled please."

"What about toast?"  _That's right, Oliver, just keep talking about food until you don't want to press her into the shower wall anymore._

"Doesn't matter, as long as it's not burnt."

He spends the trek back to the kitchen reciting the names of every medicinal plant and herb he knows of in an effort to get his mind off of a naked, soapy Felicity; even then, it takes him through most of the cooking to get himself under control again. Felicity appears about the time he's setting their plates out on her kitchen table, fully clothed and smelling of soap and the citrus scent that he's starting to identify with her presence.

"It smells delicious," she says, smiling as they sit down.

"Well, I'm no chef, so if it's terrible you don't have to eat it."

She gives him a look that he knows means he's being ridiculous and that she has full faith in his cooking ability; he watches her carefully as she bites into her eggs, which are admittedly boring. He'd only used salt and pepper for seasoning; she seems to enjoy them, however, because she's eating contentedly and completely ignoring the bottle of ketchup he'd set out on the table (just in case). Satisfied that she isn't choking to death, he settles in to eat his food.

After they've finished and their dishes are cleaned and put away again, Oliver retrieves the small, nondescript black bag that he brings with him on the nights he stays with Felicity. There's not much in it, just a toothbrush and a few other toiletries, but it's enough.

Felicity is already in the bathroom when he gets there, blow drying her hair and turning the small room into a greenhouse; Oliver steps in behind her and, feeling playful, decides to press his chest into her back and reach around her to dip his toothbrush under the faucet. She rolls her eyes at him in the mirror, but he can see the way the corners of her mouth are twitching in an attempt to hide a smile, so he winks and bumps her gently.

"I can't use my blow dryer if you're standing that close," she chides him.

"Good. It feels like a sauna in here."

"Then brush your teeth in the kitchen."

"Nope," he retorts, and pops his toothbrush in his mouth.

The monotony of brushing his teeth leaves his mind free to wander and he starts to wonder why he's in such a good mood this morning – he doesn't tease Felicity often, mostly because he's not much of the teasing type, especially after the island – and he knows that she's recognized his good mood as well, because she keeps tossing sidelong glances his way when she doesn't think he's paying attention. Oliver knows that he's not the most light-hearted man, or boyfriend for that matter, and it makes his chest tighten a little as he wonders if she wishes he were a little less serious.

He stops that train of thought before it can go any further; Felicity knows who he is – she understands him in ways that no one else does, or could even think to. She knew when they started this what sort of man he was.

Felicity has her hair gathered in one hand and pulled back and is reaching for a hair tie by the time he's done with his teeth. He's not sure why, but he reaches out and takes a chunk of the yellow strands, pulling gently.

"It looks good down," he tells her softly, letting the hair slide off his fingers. "I like it."

He's not expecting her hand to fall away, letting the curtain of hair tumble down across her tiny shoulders. He catches her eyes in the mirror, questioning her silently, and she gives him a casual shrug in response.

"Are you leaving it down for me?"

"Yes."

That makes him smile, because he hadn't intended for her to take him so seriously – he'd just thought that she deserved the compliment, because her hair really did look great yesterday – and because the idea of her doing that for him is … oddly touching. Which a part of him finds a little strange, because in all their time together he'd never cared how Laurel had done her hair. He'd noticed, of course, when she'd colored it differently or styled it in a new way, but he'd never really had a preference. So why did the knowledge that Felicity was leaving her hair down, purposely, for him, make him smile?

"Thank you," he tells her, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth.

He has to leave soon after that. When he goes to give Felicity a kiss goodbye, he finds it hard to pull away; one kiss turns into two, two into three, and then she's laughing at him and pushing him playfully toward the door while mock yelling at him for trying to get her in trouble with her supervisor.

It feels strange to be leaving so much later than usual; he brought his bike last night instead of a car, so he makes sure to slip on his helmet before leaving so that even if he passes anyone on the way to the motorcycle, he'll be unidentifiable. He glances at his watch, mildly perturbed to find that it's later than he expected, and proceeds to speed on his way to the mansion.

Thea is already gone by the time he gets home. He rushes through a shower and picking a suit, and it's only as he's thinking that at least he doesn't have to brush his teeth that he realizes that he's left his bag – toothbrush, toiletries and all – at Felicity's.

The sound of Digg calling his name has him pushing that thought to the back of his mind. The peace of his morning with Felicity is over, and now it's time to slide into the persona of Oliver Queen, CEO and Businessman.

Oliver spends the ride to the office going over the day's scheduled meetings that Claire, his secretary, had emailed him last night. He recognizes some of the names, although it doesn't really matter because next to each appointment is a short description of what the meeting is about and the names of everyone attending. There are at least two prospective investors, men that Oliver has never met, and he already feels tired thinking of the pomp and circumstance he'll have to put on for them. He has a staff meeting around lunch- time and in the description Claire has highlighted and starred the words "Queen Christmas Charity Gala", which he supposes means that they need to start planning for. That makes him double check the date on his phone, and he's surprised to see that it's already late October; he hadn't realized that it was so late in the year. Where the hell had summer gone, or fall for that matter?

As if he's a mind reader, Digg glances at him in the rearview mirror. "Got any plans for Halloween?"

"Not this year. You?"

"Carly and I are taking A.J. trick or treating. And I thought Thea was throwing a party at the mansion?"

Oliver's shoulders slump. He'd forgotten what month it was, so of course he'd forgotten about Thea's Halloween party – the one she'd been planning for the better part of two months. He'd promised to at least make an appearance when she'd asked him, a promise he's now regretting; that'd been before everything with Felicity had happened. He can always ask her if she wouldn't mind making an appearance … and then he remembers that, because they've agreed to keep their relationship under the radar, they aren't actually appearing in public together. Which was the whole reason for her two alarms and why he wore his motorcycle helmet out of her place earlier. They'd both agreed that it was better to keep quiet about the whole thing until they could figure out how it would affect the other areas of their lives, but now he's not so sure that keeping quiet is a good thing.

Digg is pulling up to Queen Consolidated then, and Oliver has to put his personal life on the backburner. He's does a good job of it, too – at least for the first part of the day.

It takes Oliver until lunch – just after the staff meeting – to realize that he hasn't had any coffee today. He'd meant to make some at Felicity's, but had apparently forgotten; he knows that Claire would make a run to the neighborhood coffee shop if he asked, but he doesn't. The staff meeting was more tedious than he expected, mostly because there were a few people who were intent on disagreeing with every idea that was pitched for the gala; a brisk walk and some fresh air with a large coffee at the end sounds like just the thing he needs. He tells his secretary he'll be out for a bit and to forward any calls or messages to his phone. He considers texting Digg to let him know of his plans, but then thinks better of it when he considers that the other man will probably insist that Oliver Queen, CEO, should not go alone.

To his chagrin, he finds Digg waiting when he steps out of the elevator on the bottom floor. He gives the other man a look that passersby would consider calm, but Digg knows is a glare.

"Your secretary must know you better than you think," Digg teases as he falls into step beside him.

"She's fired," Oliver deadpans, and hears Digg huff a laugh.

"You can never be too careful, Mr. Queen – lots of crazy people out there."

Oliver really does glare at the other man then.

The coffee shop is only a block away; it doesn't look busy, which he attributes to the fact that it's already after lunch- time for most, and he's grateful. He doesn't want to deal with large crowds, and he really can't afford to be away from the office for long. He has at least one more meeting before the day is over, if he remembers correctly.

Oliver enters the building first; he's already looking at the menu behind the counter, trying to decide what he wants, when he hears a familiar voice say his name. Surprised, he looks away for what feels like just the smallest second, and then the next thing he knows there's something crashing into him and his chest is covered in hot liquid. He reacts on instinct, reaching out to wrap both hands around whoever has just ran into him, and then he finds himself staring down into a very familiar face.

"Ol … Oliver!"

"Felicity?" he asks, confused.

"I am so sorry!" she exclaims, a blush heating her cheeks as she blinks at him with wide eyes

"Oliver?" another voice cuts in.

He closes his eyes. Perhaps, if this situation were happening to someone else, he would find it funny. He's standing in the middle of the coffee shop, both hands grasping the shoulders of his new girlfriend while they both sport matching coffee stains on the front of their clothing, and his ex-girlfriend stands not five feet from them. She's the one who had called his name when he'd first walked in, which is why he'd looked away and ended up with a chest full of Felicity. And coffee.

He opens his eyes again.

"Oliver," Felicity starts quietly, "I'm so sorry …"

"Don't apologize," he interrupts her, his expression gentle. "I wasn't paying attention. Wait here a minute?"

She nods minutely and he lets her go, then turns to smile at Laurel. He's not unhappy to see her, because he does still consider her a friend, but the smile feels tight and insincere; it's the same kind of smile he wears around anyone who isn't Felicity or Digg, anyone who he has to put up a front for. Add to that the fact that they haven't really talked much since their breakup …

"Hello, Laurel," he greets her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to catch you off guard," she says, waving at his coffee-splattered shirt, "I was just surprised."

"It's okay. What are you doing in the business district?"

"Meeting a client. You?"

"Stepped out for a coffee before the next meeting. I hate to be abrupt, but since it seems I'm going to need a new suit …"

"Of course! Just … before you go … do you think we could get lunch sometime? Just to … catch up? We haven't really talked in a while."

Oliver tries very hard not to clench his jaw. This is such a screwed up situation; he and Laurel are friends, yes, but he doesn't want to accept a lunch invitation from his ex-girlfriend without talking it over with his current girlfriend, who is standing not far behind him – and who no one knows is actually his girlfriend. He realizes right in that moment that this is not going to work: they aren't going to be able to keep their relationship a secret for much longer without complicating … well, everything. He feels like he's just gone from a double life to a triple life, and he doesn't want that. He also doesn't want to announce their relationship – to anyone – without asking her about it first.

This is seriously a no-win situation.

"I'd like that," he says instead. "Can we set up a time later?"

"Of course. Go get your coffee and I'll see you later."

After a friendly goodbye he makes his way back to Digg and Felicity, the latter of whom is no longer blushing but still rosy cheeked. Digg is smiling.

"What kind of coffee was that?" Oliver asks, motioning to their matching spills.

"White chocolate mocha," Felicity answers.

He nods and moves to order them coffees, ignoring her protests that she can get her own, and turns to ask Digg if he wants anything; the barista smiles when he orders three large coffees, and he smiles gratefully when she only charges him for two. Felicity tells him that she was headed back to work when he asks where she was going, so they turn as a group and head back to the office. AS they walk, Oliver shoots Claire an email letting her know what happened and that he's going to need to push back that last meeting until he can get changed.

"What did Laurel have to say?" Digg asks conversationally.

"She asked me to lunch," Oliver answers, and doesn't miss the way Felicity tenses next to him. "As friends."

Digg doesn't ask any more questions, but Oliver wishes he would so that he could tell Felicity right then that he hadn't said yes. He wants to tell Digg about their relationship right then as well, but he has a pretty good idea of what the other man's reaction is going to be and this is not the place to do it. Felicity doesn't seem as tense now, but she's still quieter than he'd like, and he thinks he knows her well enough to guess at what she's thinking.

"Felicity," he says warmly, touching her elbow, "who else is working the IT department with you?"

"Uh, Eric and my supervisor, Troy. Why?"

"Why don't I call Troy, tell him what happened, and you can head home early."

"Oliver," she starts, and her tone sounds both warning and hopeful.

"It's not special treatment. It's already after lunch; by the time you drive home, change, and drive back, the day will be over anyway."

He watches her struggle with herself, obviously wanting to take him up on the offer but afraid that it'll somehow come back to bite her. When she finally agrees, she does so with a sigh.

"Batcave tonight?" she inquires.

He nods affirmatively.

"Then I'll take a nap."

When they reach the spot where they'll separate, Felicity headed for the parking lot and him for the building, Oliver purposely drops back to let Digg get ahead of them. He stops them long enough to give her a searching look.

"I wanna tell Digg," he tells her quietly. "Tonight, if that's okay with you."

She actually looks relieved. "Yeah."

"I didn't agree to lunch, Felicity. I wanted to talk to you first."

That gets a smile from her, and it makes him feel better. He didn't want her to go the rest of the day wondering if he'd set up a date – even a lunch date between friends – with his ex-girlfriend without even taking her opinion into consideration.

"Now go take a nap." His tone is mock-serious.

"Thank you, Oliver."

"Hey, you're the one who spilled hot coffee all over us."

"Oh, shut up."

Oliver ignores the looks he gets as he makes his way back to his office. To his surprise, Claire has a fresh suit draped over the back of his chair, which is actually rather impressive; he gives her a warm thank you and makes a mental note to make sure she gets some kind of Christmas bonus or extra time off.

Everything about the end of the day drags on; by the time he's leaving the office for the night, he's wound tight as a corkscrew. He's not sure how much of that is because of work, though, and how much of it is because he knows that he's walking into a confrontation that needs to happen, although he wishes it didn't. Telling Digg about his relationship with Felicity is a good idea – it's necessary – but he knows not to anticipate a good reaction. He can still clearly remember the way Digg looked at him when all he'd been doing is letting Felicity fall asleep on him, and his argument about why it was a bad idea, and now they are about to tell him that they're not only dating, but that they have been for the last few weeks. While he doubts that Digg will be happy with either of them, Oliver knows that the brunt of whatever's coming is going to fall on him; he fully expects to have his past preoccupation with Laurel thrown in his face, as well as at least a dozen other things, and that's probably why he feels so on edge now.

There's also some guilt there, because while he knows what they're walking into, he doesn't think Felicity has any idea. He should've warned her, but he'd been so intent on just enjoying their time together that he hadn't really considered much else beyond that.

Felicity is at the computer desk when he gets to the foundry, Digg standing just behind her shoulder as they go over the various scanners that are set up.

"Hey," he calls, announcing his arrival.

"Hey," Digg answers. "Looks like we've got a few break-ins at some high end tech companies."

"Okay." His answer is short. He's filed the information away to be dealt with later, but right now he's focused on Felicity. She's half turned her chair toward him and she's biting her bottom lip in a way that tells him she's nervous; he arches an eyebrow, silently asking if she still wants to tell Digg their secret, and he almost smiles when her shoulders square in response.

"Oliver?" Digg probes, glancing between him and Felicity.

"Digg, Felicity and I have something we'd like to tell you." Oliver doesn't mince words or beat around the bush; they've agreed to tell him, so there's no point in drawing it out.

"We're dating,," Felicity blurts, rising to her feet. "Oliver and I, we're sort of a thing now, well, not so much of a 'thing' as a couple." She's waving her hands through the air now, motioning between the two of them for emphasis. "And we're sorry we didn't tell you sooner, we just didn't want to say anything until we'd had a chance to think about how a relationship would affect the other parts of our lives, it wasn't …"

"Felicity," Oliver says gently, because her cheeks are growing more heated the longer Digg is silent and he doesn't know when she last took a breath.

She gives a small smile, a mere shadow of the real thing, and he knows that she's more than just nervous now: she's worried, because the complete lack of a reaction from Digg is enough to signify that it probably won't be a good one when it comes.

Oliver considers Digg a friend; a close friend, none –the- less, and someone he trusts with his life. Felicity is an adult, a grown woman who can certainly handle censure and the displeasure of her peers, and he knows that – but this is Digg, someone Felicity is close to and whose opinion she holds in esteem. He knows that Digg's disapproval is going to hurt her, and he'd be lying if he said that didn't upset him. Their relationship is going to be a point of contention with enough people – he sincerely wishes that Digg wasn't going to be one of them.

These are the thoughts that make a surge of protectiveness tighten his chest, and the reason that he's glaring at Digg a little more … challengingly than he normally would.

"Digg?" There's a tremor in Felicity's voice.

"Thank you for telling me," he finally answers, and then promptly turns back to the computers. "We have work to do."

Oliver sees the way Felicity's expression falls, her lips thinning into a line and her shoulders drooping. He takes a step toward her, maybe to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly or offer some other sign of solidarity, but then she sets her shoulders again and molds her expression into one of collected determination, and the moment is gone.

He takes her cue, sweeping aside the last few minutes and slipping into the mind space of the Hood – which Felicity has taken to calling the Arrow – because Digg was right about one thing: they have work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Felicity doesn't even get to sleep in - not really. She wakes from a nightmare, breathing erratic and unshed tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, at a quarter to five that morning. She doesn't remember what the nightmare was about, although there are veiled images teasing the edges of her mind that feel sinister; she reaches automatically for her throat, imagining – remembering – a set of meaty fingers digging into the skin there. She glances at the empty space in her bed where Oliver should be, then sighs and runs a hand through her tangled hair. She hates that she can't get past this, that the nights when Oliver isn't with her are punctuated by a lingering sense of tense uneasiness. Her self - defense lessons are coming along nicely, as Digg repeatedly tells her, but it's not the same. Aside from the fact that Oliver is both lethal and terrifying to anyone he deems an enemy, his presence makes her feel better because she knows that she has backup if anything happens – she's not alone.

She manages to get her breathing under control but her heart is still trying to fly out of her chest, so she throws back her comforter and goes to check her door. Oliver had refused to let her stay the night in her new home until he'd had an alarm system installed; he'd really gone all out on this one, making sure that it would alert damn near every law enforcement agency in the city if any of the windows or doors were broken into, and then made sure she'd programmed it to set off alarms on his personal cell phone and the foundry computers as well. She'd thought about protesting the expense and the exhaustive safety measures, but she hadn't, and she knew that Oliver had understood – it was a lot of money and took time to set up, but it  _did_  make her feel safer.

Her door is locked and the alarm is still set and undisturbed. The lamp in the corner of her living room is still on, and that makes her feel better too; she feels a little childish, but ever since her attacks Felicity leaves a few of her lamps on at night. She'd tried sleeping in the dark, but found that she either couldn't sleep, or woke every hour or so in fear that someone was lurking in the shadows, so she'd just given in. The lamp in her living room illuminates that room and the bathroom, and for her room she just leaves the closet door partway open and the light on. Whenever Oliver stays over she can get by with the closet light off, but so far she hasn't been able to turn that lamp off. One of these days, she hopes, she'll get over her newfound fear of the dark.

When she gets back in bed, she burrows into the side that she's taken to calling Oliver's and pulls her comforter all the way up to her chin. The pillow still smells like him so she takes a deep breath, concentrating on the traces of sandalwood that Oliver seems to leave everywhere.

She drops off into an uneasy sleep until the sound of someone knocking on her door shocks her awake. Her feet carry her to the door on autopilot, and she's still blinking in sleepy confusion when she opens it to find Oliver on the other side.

"Hi," she mumbles, her voice thick.

Felicity hasn't been dating Oliver long; she may know him well as a friend, because they've been friends for years and they spend a lot of time together in that capacity, but as a boyfriend he is still mostly a new and unknown entity. She knows next to nothing about how he is in his private life, but if there is one thing she's learned in these few, short weeks, it's that Oliver Queen is, in many ways, totally unexpected.

He doesn't respond to her mumbled greeting. One warm, calloused hand wraps gently around her wrist and then he's stepping into her personal space to drop a kiss against her lips. Confused and still tired, she lets him bump her into the apartment and away from the door, which he closes with the hand of his that isn't around her wrist. She watches him shed his leather jacket and his shoes and doesn't fight when he lays both hands on her hips and turns her back toward her bedroom. Later, when she's awake and coherent, she'll smile at the way he shortens his stride so he doesn't trip over her as he guides them back to her bed.

She rolls back into the blankets and waits until he's stretched out on his back to press up against him, pillowing her head in the curve of his neck. She lets his heartbeat and the hand that's rubbing circles into her back lull her to sleep again.

The next time she wakes, it's nearly eleven and Oliver is snoring quietly above her. She's content to just listen for a while; eventually she finds herself running the pads of her fingers lightly over the area of his chest where she knows there's a scar. Sometimes, she gets the feeling that maybe she isn't the only one who sleeps better when they're together.

"Feel better?" His voice is a faint rumble under her ear.

"Yeah." She pulls her head back enough to look at him, blue eyes meeting blue, and it occurs to her again how much she loves moments like these.

She must be staring, because his brows are furrowing. "What?"

"I'm starving."

He chuckles and the sound chases away the last remnants of her tense morning. It's officially the weekend: she has forty-eight hours to forget about work and relax with Oliver.

"Let me get cleaned up and then you can tell me why you were here so early while we figure out what's for lunch."

She showers and dresses quickly, her stomach grumbling all the while. When she finds Oliver in the living room, she's surprised to see that he has his shoes on again. She casts a questioning glance at his footwear.

"Burgers," he says simply.

Felicity's stomach must like the idea, because it gives a particularly loud growl that she's mildly embarrassed about. Oliver doesn't smile, but she can see the mirth behind his eyes. He is totally laughing at her. She's about to make a comment about it when another thought strikes her.

"Did you bring your bike? Because I'm totally driving if you did."

"It's perfectly safe, Felicity," he starts. "All you …"

"I'm driving," she reiterates, cutting him off. "Let's go."

Big Belly Burger is one of the few places in the city where they can make an appearance and not have to worry about being seen – or even noticed, really. The diner has been a regular spot for them for awhile, so it's not unusual to see billionaire Oliver Queen seated at a booth with a nobody IT girl; in the event that anyone was actually paying attention to them, the only oddity about today's meal would be the absence of Digg.

They pick a booth by the window when they get there, the knock-off red leather warmed by wide rays of sunlight as they slide into opposite sides. Carly must not be working today, because their waiter is one that Felicity doesn't recognize: he's a young man, maybe twenty, with a mop of blonde hair and a big smile that reveals braces. Felicity spent part of the drive over mentally going over the menu (that she has  _not_ memorized) and deciding what to get, so she's ready. Oliver has apparently given this thought as well, so there's no wait; their waiter smiles and disappears with their orders.

"He smiles so much  _my_  face hurts," Oliver comments dryly.

Felicity grins. "Oh please. He's cute, all young and enthusiastic. Leave him alone."

The waiter returns with their drinks – coffee and water for Felicity, a Coke for Oliver – and Felicity tries not to grin at Oliver when the kid tells them to "Enjoy!" with a tone that's well above chipper.

"So," she begins after a minute, "why were you at my door so early?"

"Thought I'd surprise you with breakfast."

She wasn't expecting that answer. The idea that Oliver likes to cook has never crossed her mind, and, barring the eggs and toast that he'd made her the other morning, he's never brought up the subject.

"Thank you," she answers sincerely.

He opens his mouth, ostensibly to argue that he didn't actually make her breakfast, but then closes it without saying anything. This is one of the things about their relationship – in any sense of the word – that Felicity never fails to marvel at: somehow, they always seem to understand each other on a very basic level. There's next to no premise for such an understanding, because in almost every aspect of their lives they are very different people; the argument could probably be made that they are very much opposites, and yet Felicity feels like she'd be very hard pressed to find another person who understands her the way that Oliver does. Maybe it's a learned thing, a facet of their relationship that they've unwittingly cultivated over their years and time together – and maybe it's not. Maybe it's just a natural manifestation of two very different souls who share an intrinsic understanding of one another.

"You're welcome."

They share a comfortable silence until their food arrives, and then Felicity is too distracted with stuffing her face to make conversation. Big Belly has delicious food, but it seems even better today because she's damn near starving; she gives new meaning to the idea of inhaling food, and by the time she's down to nothing but her fries, she's considerably satiated. Across from her, Oliver must have eaten his food with equal fervor, because his plate is damn near empty. He tries to steal one of her fries, which just makes her shake her head and push the plate to the middle of the table so they can share.

"I don't mind." Her words come out of nowhere, so she can't fault Oliver for the confused eyebrow that arches at her. "If you wanna go to lunch with Laurel; I don't mind. Thank you for asking me, but I understand that she means a lot to you, and it's okay if you want to spend time with her."

Oliver is looking at her seriously now, quiet, and she knows that she's about to start rambling because that look is making her nervous and she can't help it.

"I understand, Oliver, she's always been a big part of your life and that's not gonna change just because we're … well, just because, and that's okay. I'll even understand if you still have feelings for her, and I won't pretend that it doesn't worry me, sometimes, but I trust you and I …"

One of Oliver's long legs is sliding against hers under the table and then he's leaning over the table, filling her vision with bright blue eyes and stubble that she's certain she could recognize anywhere. A rough hand reaches out to cup her chin, guiding her toward her with a gentle but insistent pressure; she leans forward automatically, and then that stubble is scratching against her chin and she's being kissed with a surprising earnestness.

"Oliver," she breathes when he pulls away, shocked. "We're in public."

"Good." His voice is low and even; she wants to shiver. "Laurel and I are friends, yes, and I'm glad you understand that. But everything else between us in the past, Felicity; I'm with you. I want to be with you. And I think it's time we stop hiding that."

"What about … everything?"

"We'll do what we're good at."

"I thought that was hiding?"

That gets a smile from him. "No, making it up as we go. I'd like to be able to take you out on a date, Felicity."

Oliver is back on his side of the booth now, but his leg is still pressed against hers under the table; she takes a moment to really consider what he's saying. She knows they weren't going to be able to keep their relationship a secret forever, of course, but now that she's faced with the prospect of being publicly acknowledged as Oliver Queen's girlfriend, she's more than a little nervous. She's also excited, though, because it would be nice to be able to go out if they want without worrying about who sees them – and because it'd be one less secret that either of them has to worry about keeping.

"Okay," she agrees finally. "Do we have to, like, make some sort of public announcement or something?"

She's only partly joking, because she wouldn't be surprised if he said yes. He gives her one of his "oh-very-funny -Felicity" looks, and she focuses on that instead of the feeling that she has no idea what she's just gotten herself into. Felicity is about to say something to that effect when Oliver's whole expression changes; he doesn't shut down, exactly – it's more like his walls go up, and the ease of the previous moment takes a back seat to caution.

To her surprise, Digg slides into the open space next to her. She glances at Oliver, confused as to why the arrival of their friend should trigger such a change, and then feels her stomach swoop when she realizes that he must expect some kind of confrontation.

"Hey," she greets, keeping her voice even.

"Hey," Digg answers, offering her a small smile. "I brought Carly in to pick up her paycheck."

Felicity tries to pretend that it doesn't worry her that he's offering them an explanation, as if it's not okay that he's here when they are. She fervently hopes that their dynamic as a team isn't about to take a hit, that Digg didn't just sit down to tell them that he's not comfortable being around them when they're together like this – or something equally upsetting. He hadn't said anything last night when they'd told him of their relationship and his lack of a reaction had been difficult enough to deal with.

Apparently on cue, Digg sighs and starts in. "Look, you caught me off guard yesterday. I have my reservations, but this isn't about me. You're both adults. I'm not saying I won't speak my mind if the situation calls for it, but …"

Felicity frowns. "Is that your way of saying we have your support?"

"Yes."

She's not sure that makes her feel better. While she hadn't expected Digg to jump up and down in excitement and throw glitter in the air – she'll laugh about that mental image later – she had hoped for less … resignation. True, her relationship with Oliver has nothing to do with anyone else, and she doesn't really care much about public opinion … but this is Digg; he's a friend. His stunted approval stings, but she can respect his opinion and honesty.

"Thank you." The words come from Oliver.

Digg excuses himself soon after, but Felicity's thoughts stay with him even after he's gone. A part of her wants to call him back here, or confront him somehow, so that she can ask – or demand – that he explain these "reservations" and why his support seems half-hearted; another part of her just wants to let it go and pretend that he's happy for them. She's not sure which part is going to win out. She doesn't want to fight with him, or cause any more tension in their little group, but she wants to understand why he thinks this is a bad idea. Is it because she's different from Oliver's past girlfriends? Because of Oliver's past preoccupation with Laurel?

"Felicity."

Oliver's voice draws her attention at the same time his cell phone starts to ring; he looks mildly annoyed as he draws it out of his pocket.

"Thea? Everything okay?"

Felicity doesn't hear the answer, but whatever Thea says seems to catch her brother off-guard. He looks surprised for a second and then he's silently holding the phone out for her to take.

"Hello?" she says hesitantly.

"I don't have your number," Thea Queen accuses from the other end. "How do I not have your number?"

"Uh …"

"Never mind, you can give it to me in a minute. I just wanted to make sure you're coming to my Halloween party."

"Is it actually on Halloween, or is it one of those parties where you name it after a holiday but have it on a regular day?"

Thea laughs over the airwaves. "It's on Halloween. It's technically a costume party, but you don't have to dress up. Ollie never does."

She's suddenly confronted with the idea of Oliver dressing up as a vigilante for Halloween and tries hard not to snort.

"Sure, I'll be there."

"Great! Now give me your number so I can call you later for a girl's night."

Oliver is giving her his smile-that's-not-a-smile when she gives him his phone back.

"She roped you into going to the party." It's not a question.

"I didn't really get a chance to argue. Not that I tried."

"That's only because you've never been to one of Thea's parties."

Felicity smiles and shakes her head. She's not what she'd called the "party type", but she does enjoy a good one every now and then, and she's sort of looking forward to Thea's. Even if it's a little loud and not her usual venue, it'll be a nice change to her usual schedule of work, foundry and weekends-in – although the last one has gotten decidedly better now that Oliver spends most of them with her.

They leave a few minutes later. Felicity rarely plans things for the weekends - she usually anticipates being sequestered in the basement of Verdant – so she's debating on what to do for the rest of the day as she drives them back to her apartment. Technically it's still the afternoon, so maybe she can get a nap in; she's not sure if Oliver is planning on going to the foundry tonight and she's still a little tired after her less than stellar night.

Now that they've decided to go public with their relationship, does that mean that Oliver is going to start spending the night more often? She can totally get behind that idea. Should she ask him about it? Would that be too forward of her? Then again, she hadn't failed to notice that he'd forgotten his toiletry bag at her house the other night; she'd even carved out a place for it among her things in the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. She'd momentarily thought of taking the stuff out of the bag and putting it away, but her heart had done strange things at the prospect so she'd dismissed the idea as too much, too soon. Logistically speaking, however, if Oliver starts to spend more time at her place then it'd be easier if he just … brought some stuff over.

No. She's not going to think about that; she's already thinking too much. Oliver hasn't said anything about spending more time at her apartment. They spend a lot of time together between the foundry and their personal time, so it's probably a good thing that he only spends a few nights at her place; everyone needs time to be alone and decompress, and she needs to get over this fear of being home alone.

They aren't in her apartment for more than a few minutes when Felicity finds herself pulled into a pair of big arms for no apparent reason. She doesn't argue. Her arms feel tiny as she wraps them around Oliver's waist, but they fit together well despite their impressive size difference. In fact, she likes feeling like she could disappear in his embrace; she likes his height advantage and broad chest and thick arms. She even likes it when she has to rise up onto her toes when he kisses her moments later.

This kiss isn't like the one in the diner. His lips are gentle against hers, patient and exploratory; he lets her go when the pain in the balls of her feet drive her back to flat-footed-ness.

"Is it my turn to pick the movie?" he questions, but doesn't let her go.

"Sure. I think I'm out of popcorn though."

"What about ice cream?"

There's no mistaking the way his eyes are glittering when she glares at him, and she feels a rush of warmth flood her when the smile tracks down from his eyes to spread across his lips. Oliver doesn't smile often, and even when he does they're rarely ever like this: all lightness and pearly teeth. This might be a tiny glimpse of the Oliver Queen that existed before the island; this might be the thousand-watt smile that made regular appearances. This is the smile that has become Felicity's personal unicorn: some will say it doesn't exist, but she knows better because, sometimes, she's lucky enough to see it.

This smile – Oliver's real, too-big-to-contain smile – is her favorite, second only to her mother's.

She smiles, because there's no way she can keep a straight face when he smiles at her like that, and swats his arm playfully.

"I'll check. Go pick your movie."

He drops his arms and steps away. Felicity makes for her freezer, pleased to find a gallon of mint chocolate chip sitting just inside the door as if it'd just been waiting to be retrieved. She doesn't bother with a bowl, just grabs two spoons and some water. She considers making tea, but it probably wouldn't taste that great with ice cream.

Oliver already has his shoes off and the movie in the DVD player when she joins him on the couch. She doesn't bother asking him what he's picked cause he won't tell her – he always makes her wait until the title menu.

Felicity gets excited when it turns out to be Iron Man. She loves the Iron Man movies, although she's not sure if it's because they're great overall or because she harbors an almost unhealthy love of Robert Downey, Jr. That doesn't even take into account Pepper Potts – that's a whole other bag of chips.

"You're gonna love this!" she crows happily, waving her spoon through the air despite the scoop of ice cream it holds. "RDJ is Iron Man."

"Who is RDJ?"

"Robert Downey, Jr. His name is kind of a pain to say, so I just use his initials."

"That's the actor, right?"

"Yes, but he  _is_  Iron Man. He doesn't just play the character, he  _is_  the character; they're indistinguishable! And Pepper … everyone loves Pepper, you can't  _not_ love Pepper, she's …"

Felicity isn't paying attention because she's lost in her rant. Her spoon – ice cream and all – smashes against Oliver's cheek that is nearest to her, stopping her in mid-sentence. She can feel her eyes widen in shock, her mouth hanging partway open as she stares at the smear of green ice cream across his stubble. Oliver is just staring at her, unmoving.

Slowly, as if the moment is suspended from the regular laws of time, the remaining hunk of ice cream slides off the corner of her spoon and lands on his chest with a quiet plop.

There is literally no possible way she can stop it: a laugh spills out of her, wild and unfettered, and she can feel her cheeks heating up as she spirals into gales of laughter. Everything about this is ridiculous, from the stunned look on Oliver's face to the smears of ice cream on his face and shirt.

Oliver's laughter starts as a chuckle and grows like a storm cloud, reverberating off of her walls and winding around her heart. She's never heard Oliver laugh, but she won't realize that (or the significance of it) until later; right now, she's too busy trying to hold back her laughter long enough to take a breath.

"I'm sorry," she manages to gasp out, her sides aching. "I'll grab a rag."

The trip to the kitchen is long enough for her to get herself under control, but she's still smiling and letting out breathy little laughs when she drops down next to him with a rag in hand. She wipes it off his shirt first and then goes for the spot on his cheek; shaking her head minutely as she marvels at the situations she creates. Trust Felicity to smack her boyfriend in the face with a spoonful of ice cream.

Her movements still when she realizes that she's being watched with a singular intensity.

"What?" Her voice is breathy; she blames it on the laughter.

Oliver likes kissing her, apparently, and she isn't going to be complaining any time soon. He's leaning into her, tracing the line of her jaw and then burying his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck and then she's pressing into him, the rag and everything else forgotten as her world narrows down to Oliver.

She doesn't wait for a sign from him to part her lips; his tongue is sliding across hers immediately as she seeks the heat of his mouth, tasting mint chocolate chip as she goes. There's a pressure at the base of her neck and a hand pulling at her hip, but she doesn't need any help as she climbs into his lap, pushing a knee into the pillows on either side of him and pressing her thighs into his sides. The deep grunt that escapes him then sends a shot of pleasure straight through her, so she squeezes him a little tighter and relishes the way his fingers dig into her hip.

Felicity is caught in a spiral of heady desire. Every inch of her that is pressed against Oliver feels exposed, a livewire that sparks with each touch or application of pressure. She is not a virgin, but she doesn't remember ever feeling like this with anyone else.

Her hands dance down his torso, a tango that she punctuates with the light scratching of her nails against fabric; Oliver releases a heavy breath against her mouth – she thinks it might have been a gasp – and she can feel the evidence of his desire pressed against her bottom. A swell of pride thrills through her, igniting the heat that's pooling low in her belly, and then she's grasping the hem of his t-shirt and pulling away from him long enough to slip it off. She lets her eyes trace every scar and line of muscle, because she may have seen him shirtless many times, but she's never seen him like  _this_ , and she wants to remember.

The weight of his gaze draws her eyes upward until they find his, heavy lidded and several shades too dark. Both of his hands are on her hips now, burning through the fabric of her clothes to leave invisible imprints on her skin; she doesn't know what possesses her to do it, but she rolls her hips forward – just a small slide of movement – and barely has time to note the way Oliver growls before he's pressing warm lips against the base of her throat in retaliation.

There's the fleeting bite just under her skin to herald the arrival of goose bumps, and then she's distracted as he nips at the edge of collarbone that peeks out from her shirt. Felicity grips one of his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin, and drops her head to the other side; one of his hands has found its way under her shirt and is leaving trails of fire as it ghosts over her ribcage. She's not sure she's still breathing.

Oliver bites at the pulse point in her neck; in the same instant, his hand takes a firm grasp of her breast, the pad of his thumb flicking over her nipple through the fabric of her bra. Her hips roll involuntarily as she moans and arches into him.

"Oliver." Her voice is scratchy and breathless.

He hums in response, a vibration of his lips against her skin.

Felicity is finding it very hard to hold onto rational thought. "Do you have a condom?"

Oliver goes perfectly still beneath her, but it takes her muddled brain a second to catch on; when it does, she's filled with a sense of dread.

"Oliver?"

"Shit."

Has she ever heard him swear before? "Is that a no?"

His lips leave her neck, replaced by his forehead, and the hand cupping her breast falls away. She has her answer, and it's not the one she wanted.

"That … sucks."

Oliver huffs out a laugh. He sits back slowly and now that she knows they'll be going unsatisfied, she does her best not to shift in his lap as he does so. Well, they don't both have to be unsatisfied … He must know what she's thinking, because as soon as her hand reaches out he loops his fingers around her wrist and pulls it to his chest instead.

"There's no rush," he tells her. "I'll wait for you."

There's really no reason for her to be surprised at his thoughtfulness, but she is; surprised, and touched.

"Well, I know what's going on my shopping list."

Her attempt at brevity gets a one sided smile. She gives him a quick kiss, wary of the heat that's still threatening to burn her from the inside out, and lifts herself out of his lap. When she turns around, the title menu of Iron Man is still flashing on her screen and there's an open tub of ice cream melting on her coffee table. She just barely resists sighing in frustration; they're in for a long night.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Oliver is having a hard time hiding the fact that he genuinely dislikes the man seated in front of him, which is saying something because Oliver is sort of a professional at hiding things. Kaeden Ellis is in his late forties, shrewd, and leaves a sour taste in Oliver's mouth after their encounters; he's one of the few investors who was willing to take a chance on Queen Consolidated after the reveal of Moira's complicity in the Glades scheme. Ellis hadn't saved the company single-handedly, but it probably would have gone under without him, and the smug bastard knows it. The other man is never anything less than polite, but there's something about him that makes it impossible for Oliver to truly like him.

Ellis is here for their monthly meeting, which is really just an appointed date and time for the other man to go over QC's dividends and earnings for the month. Oliver can't deny that Kaeden is a sharp businessman, and he is grateful to the other man for helping with the company, so he's doing his best to reign in his irritation. In fairness, Oliver has been irritated for at least the last two days, so it's not entirely Kaeden Ellis' fault. Things just haven't exactly been going his way this week.

Everything had been fine until Wednesday, when Digg had cornered him before he'd left for the night to "discuss what he was doing with Felicity." Oliver had been mildly surprised – he'd thought Diggle would have said something sooner. Digg had come at him with all the arguments that Oliver had been expecting: his penchant for dropping everything (implied every _one_ ) for Laurel; Felicity's long standing crush and general sweetness of character putting her more at risk for being hurt when things between them went south; and, lastly – and the only argument he hadn't seen coming – that Oliver didn't actually have real feelings for her, and that what he was feeling was just a sort of rush after realizing that they'd nearly lost her. Oliver had been upset from the beginning of the conversation, but only lost his temper when the last point had come up. He could understand everything else, because Digg was just being a good friend and expressing his concerns, but to suggest that Oliver's feelings weren't real … well, that had been too much. He'd let Digg know, in no uncertain terms, that the conversation was over, and then turned around and logged a few more hours on the sparring dummy and salmon ladder before leaving. The only thing that made him feel better was the memory of Felicity's face, open and honest, when she'd told him at the diner that she didn't mind if he hung out with Laurel because she trusted him.

Unfortunately, Laurel is also another thing he has to deal with. Now that he knows Felicity is okay with it, he wants to set up a lunch date with Laurel – but he doesn't anticipate that it will go smoothly. Oliver has decided to tell her about his relationship with Felicity before the media beats him to it, because it's important to him that she finds out from him; he and Felicity haven't been together long, but he knows that if they get the chance, the media will paint an ugly picture about how Oliver has seemingly jumped out of one relationship and into another. The truth won't matter then: how he and Laurel hadn't been working for awhile; how he'd started to look at Felicity differently awhile ago, and just refused to acknowledge it; and, mostly, they would try to find fault in a situation where there was none. No one had done anything wrong. For these reasons and more, he wants to make sure that Laurel finds out from him; he has many secrets, but it's important to him that he takes the chance to be honest when he can.

So it's not entirely Kaeden Ellis' fault that Oliver is having a hard time keeping his ire in check, but he's certainly not helping.

Neither are the sirens that have chosen that moment to come screaming up the street outside his window. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, intending to look away as soon as the police car zips by, and then stops and stares when he realizes that it's an ambulance – and it's parked right at QC's front doors.

"Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Ellis," he says quickly, buzzing for Claire before the other man can answer.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

"Claire, why is there an ambulance outside?"

Claire glances up to make eye contact with him through the glass wall that separates their offices, and he can see that she's confused. "I'm not sure, Mr. Queen. Let me ask."

He watches through the glass as Claire picks up her phone and hits a speed dial; he can hear her speaking but can't make out the words. Whoever she called first must not be of much help, because she hangs up and hits another button immediately. She must get an answer from the second person, but instead of buzzing him again she stands and moves around her desk to open his door and lean in.

"There's been an accident a few floors down, Mr. Queen. The ambulance is here because someone has apparently broken their ankle."

Oliver would have excused himself no matter what the situation would have been, but he's exceedingly grateful that he's getting away from Ellis. His mother would probably chide him for being rude, but he doesn't even wait to hear what the other man has to say before striding purposefully out of the office and toward the elevator. He asks Claire to see to whatever Ellis needs and then reschedule their meeting if necessary, then steps into the elevator and looses a relieved breath when the doors close.

He'd forgot to ask Claire what floor the accident had happened on, but one of the elevator buttons is glowing at him and he knows that he didn't press it – he spares a tiny smile for his wonderfully competent assistant and waits for the elevator car to stop.

Oliver isn't fully paying attention when the doors open and he steps out onto the floor; there's a small crowd of people gathered together a few feet away, and as he approaches he realizes that there appears to be some sort of argument going on. His heart lurches when he realizes that he recognizes at least one of the voices, because it belongs to Felicity.

"Don't be a coward," someone is saying angrily. "If it was an accident just own up to it and apologize!"

"I didn't do anything!" another voice answers.

"Just shut up!" That voice is Felicity's. "I don't care what happened, whether it was an accident or not, just stop shouting already! You're giving me a headache and that is the last thing I need right now, okay?"

Oliver can't help the adrenaline that's flooding him then, so his voice sounds sharp and commanding when he speaks. "What's going on here?"

He's standing on the outer edge of the gathered mob, and all at once everyone turns to look at him, expressions ranging from anger to surprise. He's taller than almost all of them, and yet he can't see whatever it is they were looking at.

"Mr. Queen," a woman says, stepping forward. "There was a bit of an accident …"

"So I was told," he interrupts, "although there seems to be some debate about whether or not it was an accident at all, from the sounds of it. What happened?"

"Ms. Smoak …"

His heart takes a nose -dive at the name, and he cuts the woman off in his surprise. "F … Ms. Smoak?"

"Yes, Sir."

Oliver takes a step forward and his employees react automatically, moving away from him to clear a path. Sure enough, now that everyone is out of the way he has a clear view of Felicity, who is seated on an office chair with her head in her hands. She has one foot on the floor and the other propped on a chair and straight out in front of her.

He makes himself focus on the woman who'd been addressing him. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Vivi, Mr. Queen."

"Alright, Vivi, if you wouldn't mind staying around for a minute. The rest of you, get back to work."

His eyes are on Felicity as he crosses the short distance to her; she hasn't looked up once since he's arrived, and it's making the knot of worry behind his sternum tighten painfully. He debates on what to do – how to act – for only a moment; everyone is going to find out about them sooner or later, anyway.

"Felicity?" he probes quietly, dropping to one knee next to her and reaching out to brush a hand over her bicep.

When she meets his eyes, hers are glassy and a little wet. She gives him a watery smile that's probably closer to a grimace.

"Hey."

Oliver looks down at the ankle on the chair; someone had the good sense to take her shoe off, and it already looks several shades of purple and swollen.

"How long have you been waiting on an ambulance?"

"Maybe fifteen minutes," Vivi answers. "I think they're here now, though."

He knows they are because they're parked just below his window. What he doesn't know is why they aren't up here yet.

"What happened?" He directs the question at Felicity, careful to keep his voice even.

She almost manages a laugh. "Fell."

"She was tripped," a new voice cuts in.

Oliver's attention leaves his girlfriend and fixes on the two men standing on the opposite side of her, a foot or so away from her and even farther from each other. He hadn't noticed them sticking around when he'd told everyone to go back to work.

"Who are you?" he demands.

He doesn't stand, and he doesn't move his hand from Felicity's arm.

"Ivan Dennehy," the man who spoke answers.

He cuts his eyes to the silent one. "Eric Pyper."

"You gonna tell me what happened, gentleman?"

"No," Felicity grunts. "They're just gonna fight; they sorta hate each other. Doesn't anyone have any ibuprofen or something? Where the hell are the paramedics, they've got the good drugs."

Vivi – whom Oliver hadn't noticed disappeared – appears behind him then, paramedics in tow. Oliver gets to his feet and moves out of their way, but he only steps around to stand behind Felicity's head. He moves his hand from her bicep to her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly when she drops her cheek against the back of his hand. If anyone notices their behavior, they're smart enough not to comment on it. Oliver is in no mood to field questions about their relationship.

As he watches the paramedics lift his girlfriend onto a stretcher, Oliver decides that his week has just gotten worse. He asks what hospital she's being taken to and then, following his instinct, drops a kiss on her forehead as he promises to follow them. A small finger of panic stabs him when he realizes that what he's done is a breach of company policy – several of them, probably – and he pushes it away by slipping on his businessman's mask.

"Explain."

He gets most of the story from Ivan and Vivi. Felicity had been leaving Alicia Edge's office and headed back to her own; Vivi had been trying to catch her – although Oliver notices that she doesn't say why – so she called out her name. Felicity had turned, and the next thing Vivi knew she was falling; she hadn't been close enough to see what had happened or whether or not it was an accident. Ivan had been coming from the other direction and seen it all, apparently: Eric had been moving to intercept Felicity for some reason, and when she'd turned at the sound of her name he'd pulled a classic stick-out-an-ankle and tripped her.

Eric, who has been silent the whole time, finally speaks up. "Why would I trip her?"

"Cause you want her job? Cause you're a jealous prick? Choose one, man," Ivan snaps.

"You're the prick, Ivan."

"Are we in high school again and I didn't know it?" Oliver's tone is dripping sarcasm. He's not sure if he believes that Eric tripped Felicity, but he is sure that dealing with these idiots is keeping him from getting to the hospital.

Oliver sends the other two away, but asks Vivi to accompany him back to the elevator.

"Why were you trying to catch Felicity?" he asks politely.

To his surprise, she blushes. "Uh … I … we, uh …"

"Relax," he tells her in his gentlest tone. "I don't bite."

"Maybe not, but you are the CEO. You could fire me."

"Why would I do that?"

"I wanted to invite her to dinner," Vivi says in a rush. "Well, we both did, but … Felicity and Alicia have coffee together in the mornings."

"Okay," Oliver says, drawing out the 'O' because he's confused.

"She seems like a sweet woman, so we thought maybe we could hang out, go on a double date …"

Here Vivi lets her words fade away; she's glancing sidelong at Oliver and her cheeks are almost fuchsia she's blushing so much, but he is completely lost. Does Vivi think that he'd fire any of them just because Felicity and Alicia are friends, and have coffee in the morning? There's no way Oliver Queen, playboy brat turned corporate businessman, has a reputation as that much of a hard ass.

"I wouldn't fire you for being friends with your coworkers, Vivi."

Her blush intensifies, but she gives him a genuine smile. "I was more worried about the whole thing where I'm dating my boss."

Oliver doesn't know whether or not to laugh. Wouldn't that be rich? Oliver firing Vivi for an inter-office romance, when his mother had married Walter and he was currently in a relationship with Felicity; that would be just great. He'd be the biggest hypocrite in the city.

"Is it affecting your work?" he queries.

"No, Sir."

"Then it's none of my business. And please, don't call me sir. I feel old enough as it is."

Vivi's expression is wavering between relief and humor, although if he didn't know better he'd think she was even a little … confused. He honestly doesn't have time to think about it, however, because the elevator doors are sliding open and he's taken long enough. He needs to get to the hospital and see how Felicity is doing.

"Thank you for your help, Vivi. If you'll excuse me, I have to run."

He shoots Digg a text telling him to bring the car around and meet him out front, then phones Claire to let her know that he's going to be out of the office for the rest of the day and to make the necessary adjustments. By the time he steps out of the elevator and heads for the front door, he can just see Digg pulling up with the limo.

"What's up?" the other man inquires, holding the door open for Oliver to slide in.

"Felicity got hurt."

Oliver tells him which hospital she's been taken to and then spends the drive explaining what happened. Things between the two men are still a little shaky after their 'confrontation' earlier in the week, but that is neither here nor there at the moment; Felicity is important to both of them.

His phone rings as the hospital comes into his line of sight. He doesn't recognize the number and almost sends it to voicemail, but then changes his mind in the chance that it's Felicity or someone else calling from the hospital.

"Hello?"

"Ollie? It's Kylie."

Well, that's unexpected.

"Hey, Kylie."

"What the hell is going on? I just got a call from Starling Memorial saying that Felicity was injured."

"Why … are you her emergency contact?" Oliver has never considered who Felicity's emergency contact would be, since as far as he knows her only parent was deceased. All at once he feels like a terrible friend – and boyfriend – because he's never asked her about the rest of her family. What about her father? Aunts, uncles, cousins? Surely she isn't completely alone in the world … is she?

"… Have been since her mom passed," Kylie is saying. "Is she okay?"

"She injured her ankle. I don't know the details yet; we're pulling up to the hospital now. Can I call you back?"

"Yes. If you don't, I'll make your life hell, Queen."

"Noted."

They luck out and find parking near the entrance. Oliver is already half out of the car before it's stopped moving, long strides eating up the pavement. He knows that Felicity isn't in danger and that she's probably fine – at the worst, her ankle is probably broken – but he has never been one to deal well with the people he cares about being hurt (in any way). Digg catches up to him easily, which is good because he doesn't stop until he's at the nurse's station. The man behind the counter gives him Felicity's room number, but warns him that she might not be back from x-ray yet.

When he turns the corner into the appointed room, he nearly bowls the doctor over as he's leaving.

"Is she okay?" He doesn't mean for it to sound as demanding as it does.

"Who are you?" The doctor – her name- tag says Hammond – is a diminutive woman with sharp eyes who is, apparently, not taking any of his shit.

"I'm Oliver Queen; Felicity's boyfriend. I apologize for snapping at you, Dr. Hammond."

Dr. Hammond softens, but only minutely. "Ms. Smoak is fine, Mr. Queen."

"Oliver?" Felicity calls then. "Is that you? Are you harassing the doctor?"

The doctor turns to the side, giving Oliver a clear view of Felicity where she lays with her injured ankle in a sling.

"I'm not harassing anyone," he fires back, but his tone is teasing. "How's your ankle?"

He directs the question at the doctor, who sighs and tucks Felicity's chart against her side when the other woman nods to give her consent to tell Oliver her prognosis.

"The ankle's not broken," Dr. Hammond says. "Ms. Smoak has a grade two sprain; some of the fibers in the ligament have been torn. The swelling should go away in the next twenty- four to forty -eight hours, and I've prescribed her a mild painkiller. If she's careful and diligent about taking care of it, it should heal on its own in four to six weeks."

"What about crutches?" Digg asks.

"We'll send her home with a set and a few ace bandages to keep it wrapped. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to put Ms. Smoak's prescription in to the pharmacy. Good afternoon."

Oliver had stayed just inside the doorway to talk to the doctor, but now that the conversation is over he's crossing the room in two quick strides. Felicity rolls her eyes at him – probably because his expression is a reflection of the tension he's been feeling since he saw her in that chair – but she smiles when he takes one of her hands in his own.

"Kylie called," he informs her, setting partway next to her on the bed. "The hospital called her when you were brought in."

"Did you tell her I was fine?"

"I told her that you'd injured your ankle, and that I'd call her after I found out more."

"Ugh. I love that girl, but sometimes she's so … dramatic."

"She's your friend," Digg cuts in, raising an eyebrow at her. "She was worried about you. So were we."

Felicity blushes. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm sorry; I'm just irritated. Who else would literally trip themselves into an injury, right?"

"Are you sure that's what happened?" Oliver challenges. "Ivan Dennehy seems to think someone else played a part in it."

She gives him a wry grin. "What, you really think Eric tripped me – on purpose? Sure, we're not friends, but why would he do that?"

"I don't know." Oliver has to admit, it does sound a little … strange. Still, if there's one thing he's learned through being the vigilante, it's too never rule something out prematurely.

"What do you think?" Digg questions. "Did Eric do it? Did you see him before you fell?"

"No. I mean, I was looking back over my shoulder, so I didn't really see anything. One minute I was walking, and the next my foot caught on something, and I fell."

Oliver doesn't get a chance to reply because his phone starts ringing. When he looks at the caller I.D., he recognizes the same number that Kylie called from earlier; he answers, gives her a greeting, and then hands the phone to Felicity.

By the time Felicity is making her halting way to the car on her crutches, Friday afternoon has morphed into Friday evening. Felicity is terrible at walking with the crutches – she has to stop every few steps and readjust her arms or grip – but Oliver doesn't say anything about it. He just walks quietly beside her, stopping whenever she does, and keeping a few fingers pressed against her elbow in a silent show of support. Digg brings the car around to the front without being asked; by the time Oliver is helping her slide into the seat, Felicity is flushed and exhausted. He moves the crutches out of the way and slides up against her side, pulling her head down to rest on his shoulder and wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Giving a klutz crutches is just cruel," she huffs, and then chuckles. "That can be my band name: Klutzes on Crutches. At least it was my left foot."

"I'm sorry." He's not sure what else to say.

"For what? It's not your fault I'm as graceful as a hippo on stilts."

The analogy makes him laugh, both for the mental image it provides, and because it's unexpected. One of these days Felicity may stop taking him by surprise, but he doesn't think she'll ever stop making him laugh.

"That could be your album cover."

"Ooh, good idea."

She falls asleep on his shoulder after that. He holds her against his side as tightly as he dares, watching the city whiz by outside his window. He asks Digg to go to the mansion first; he's decided that he's gonna spend the first few days – at least – at Felicity's so that he's there to help her with whatever she needs. For a minute he worries what she'll say about his decision, but it's really not that different from their current arrangement, so he doesn't think she'll mind. She might, however, be upset when he tells her that he's giving her the next week off of work.

Only when Digg is turning down the long driveway to the mansion does Oliver realize that it's Halloween, and that Thea's party has already started. There are cars everywhere.

"Thanks, Digg," Oliver says when he's gotten as close to the garage as possible and parked. "Is your car here?"

"Yeah, but it's parked on the other side. Should be good."

"Good. You can head out; I'm just gonna grab some stuff before I take her home."

"You gonna be staying at her place?"

"Yes." Oliver's answer is curt; he's not sure what Digg meant by the question and after the day – week – he's had, he's a little on edge.

Digg just nods.

"Felicity," Oliver murmurs, squeezing her side. "Hey."

"Hmm?" She raises her head from his shoulder and blinks several times, glancing around to get her bearings. Her glasses are crooked on her nose. "Where are we?"

"My house. Digg's gonna take off and I'm gonna grab some stuff for your place."

"Oh!" she exclaims. "It's Halloween! Thea's party is tonight."

"And in full swing, if the driveway is any indication," Digg answers dryly. "You guys good?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Digg," Felicity answers, coherent again. "For everything."

He nods at her. "Night."

Oliver gets out first so that he can help her out and give her the crutches; the darkness hides his crooked smile as she mutters about the injustices of being born graceless and the similarities between crutches and stilts. They make their way – slowly – to the front door; he can hear the music through the walls as they get closer. He knows his sister and her love of parties, so there's bound to be a hundred people or more inside that door, and that's enough of an obstacle course for someone who doesn't have to worry about limited mobility.

"Why don't you wait for me in the foyer? There's gonna be a lot of people and I don't want them to jostle you around. I won't be long."

"Only if you find your sister and tell her where I am. I don't want her to think I flaked out on her."

He agrees and opens the door, wincing visibly when his ears are assaulted with the full force of the music. Thea has decked out the interior with Halloween decorations and he thinks he might spy a strobe light in the other room; thankfully, she's left the hallway mostly intact and undisturbed. Unfortunately, there aren't any chairs in the foyer, so he helps Felicity into the front sitting room – also mostly untouched – and makes sure she's settled into one of the armchairs before dropping a quick kiss to her lips and disappearing.

Oliver tracks down Thea first, which is no easy feat. There are people everywhere, dancing and waving plastic cups in the air as they flit from one room to another. By the time he finds his sister in the kitchen – she's mixing some kind of punch that he's sure is mostly colored alcohol – he's wearing at least six ounces of various kinds of alcohol. Now that he's here and witnessing the festivities, he's not feeling so great about leaving his little sister alone; Thea has a penchant for getting into trouble, and this is a recipe for exactly that. With Walter gone and their mother in prison, he's the only adult supervision to be found; maybe he can talk Felicity into staying here, just for the night, so that he can make sure nothing happens to Thea. Or their house, for that matter.

"Hey," Oliver calls as he approaches.

"Ollie! There you are! Where the hell have you been?"

"Please tell me at least a quarter of that is non-alcoholic," he says, side-eying the punch bowl.

"Better," she replies. "Half of it is. I toned it down this year."

He's not sure if he should proud, or worried that she considers that 'toning it down'; although, when it comes to Thea, that  _is_  toning it down.  _Wonderful._

"Felicity's in the sitting room. She got hurt at work today; sprained her ankle. I've been at the hospital with her."

"Damn, that sucks! Here, finish stirring this, I'm gonna go talk to her."

She doesn't wait for him to take the wooden spoon that she's been using to stir the punch before flouncing out of the room. Oliver shakes his head and leans down to sniff the purple-blue liquid in the bowl; he can smell the alcohol, but it doesn't smell like  _pure_  alcohol, so he'll have to call this one a draw.

He ducks out of the kitchen, weaving in and out of people like the expert he is, and makes his way upstairs to his room. He changes out of his suit and into a Henley and jeans, double -checking that he doesn't smell like booze; he's headed for the stairs when he changes direction and retrieves a fresh set of sheets from the linen closet instead. With all the back and forth between here and Felicity's he's been doing lately, he's not sure when the last time was that he changed his sheets; on the off chance that Felicity doesn't mind staying here tonight, he doesn't want to worry about whether or not his sheets are clean.

Thea is laughing when he makes it back to the sitting room. She's sitting on the end of the big couch that's closest to Felicity, and though she looks tired, Felicity is grinning.

"What's so funny?"

"I was just telling your girlfriend about the year I ate all of my Halloween candy and then cried and told mom that you stole it."

The words 'your girlfriend' catch him off-guard and his step visibly falters; he glances at Felicity, who just grins and shakes her head.

"I didn't tell her," Felicity says, answering the question he hasn't asked.

"What, that you two are together now? Please. I've seen you guys together, no one needed to tell me anything."

Oliver can feel one of his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. He didn't know that Thea had been paying that much attention – or that his feelings for Felicity had become (were becoming?) so apparent.

Thea extracts a promise for at least a lunch date from Felicity before excusing herself and returning to her party. Oliver takes the seat his sister has just vacated, smiling – or maybe grimacing – when he hears Thea yelling for more punch before fading into the press of partygoers.

"How are you feeling?"

Felicity gives him a tired smile. "My ankle is throbbing a bit, but the painkillers are doing their job. You want me to stay here tonight, don't you?"

Oliver laughs quietly, dropping his head for a minute before answering. He still doesn't understand how she does this; how someone who, by all accounts, should never have crossed his path, has become someone who knows him so well. She not only anticipates what his questions are going to be, she offers answers before he's decided whether or not to ask. Nine times out of ten she'll be the first one to call him out on his bullshit; she supports him unfailingly, without being prompted; and in all of the time since he's returned from the island, she is the only one who consistently makes him smile.

"I didn't even get to ask you," he grumbles.

"You didn't have to. I can see it in your face. You're worried about leaving Thea here alone, and I understand. Besides, your bed is bigger."

There's something warm and weightless swelling in his chest, coaxing his heartbeat to speed up and his fingers to tingle; he knows what it is but it's been so long since he's felt it that he's afraid to name it.

"Come on," he says, rising to his feet and holding out his hand for her.

The stairs are a new evil for her to face. She has a hard time keeping her balance between the time that it takes her to put her crutches on the next stair and pull herself up; she nearly falls over twice and she's only made it about a third of the way up. After she starts to teeter for the third time, her exhaustion has settled in full force and turned to agitation at being unable to successfully go up a single step. Oliver doesn't warn her; he just tucks one arm around her waist, the other behind her knees, and pulls her up against his chest. She squeals softly in surprise, barely managing to keep a hold on her crutches before he starts climbing.

It's a testament to how tired she is that she doesn't try to insist that she could have done it; instead, she wraps her arms around his neck and murmurs a thank you against his lips.

Oliver sets her gently on his bed, then strips out of his clothes – which he's only worn for a total of maybe twenty minutes – and into a pair of cotton sweats. He realizes, then, that Felicity is still in her pencil skirt and blouse from work; she doesn't have a spare set of clothes to change into.

"Sweats or shorts?" he inquires, crossing to his dresser.

"Shorts, please."

He grabs her one of his white V-necks, but the only shorts he can find are his boxers, so he takes a clean pair and then steps into the bathroom to give her some privacy after giving them to her.

She's already in bed and under the covers when she calls him back; she looks tiny, all burrowed into the blankets, and he can feel the smile tugging at his lips. He turns off the lights and crawls in next to her, turning to face her just as she's tucking herself up against his chest. He drapes an arm over the curve of her waist and presses a kiss into her blonde tresses as a petite foot wraps around one of his calves because she can't reach his feet.

"I love this," she whispers into his skin.

He lays awake for a long time after that, trying very hard not to think about how "I love  _this_ " could have been "I love  _you_ ".

 


	5. Chapter 5

Felicity can feel the familiar weight of his stare and contemplates teasing him about it; she's not really in a teasing mood, though, because her ankle is throbbing painfully and she's irritated with her newly limited mobility. Also, she needs a shower, but isn't looking forward to trying to figure out the logistics of said shower.

"Generally driving involves keeping your eyes on the road," she quips finally, turning her head to look at him.

"They are on the road." His tone is just as even and calm as it always is, so if he's noticed her somewhat foul mood he's choosing not to comment on it.

Felicity doesn't reply. Truth be told, she's not sure why she feels so grumpy. She'd slept relatively well, all things considered, and the morning had been pleasant. Oliver had made her and a hung over Thea breakfast, which had been surprisingly delicious. In fact, there's really no reason for her to be in a bad mood, and that only makes her more irritated, because it seems completely ridiculous. Why is she mad for no apparent reason? Maybe it's a side effect of the painkillers that the doctor gave her; is a short temper a legitimate side effect? When she gets home she's going to thoroughly research her medication.

"Felicity."

Her irritation doesn't keep her from appreciating the way Oliver says her name. "What?"

"What's wrong?"

She sighs and squirms in her seat. "I have no idea. And I'm not just saying that, this isn't one of those times where someone says one thing and really means another. I legitimately have no idea."

He nods as if her answer has made any sense, which she knows isn't true. To be fair though, it's hard to explain something that you don't understand. Maybe if she goes home, showers and takes a nap for a few hours she'll feel better.

"Well, at the risk of irritating you more, I think you should stay home tonight."

She knows he means from the foundry, and he's right: it does irritate her. Felicity isn't irritated at him, though; she's angry that she won't be there to help them, even from behind the scenes. She hates feeling like she's leaving them out to dry, which is always how she feels when something gets in the way of her contributing to Team Arrow. Granted, they were handling things just fine on their own before she showed up with blood on her shirt – but that's not the point.

"Yeah," she huffs resignedly. "I guess that's not a bad idea. We know how well I manage crutches and stairs."

She's turned her head to look out the window when the warmth of Oliver's hand comes to rest on her knee. They don't say much after that, but one of her hands finds its way over his and gives it a grateful squeeze. She likes knowing that she doesn't have to explain herself, that Oliver understands that sometimes she's just not in a good mood; he doesn't tell her she's being silly, or to "cheer up", and she really appreciates that. This is just another reason on her growing list of why their relationship seems to come so naturally: because neither one expects the other to placate them. She can handle Oliver's bad moods and anger, and he can handle hers. There is no acting between them.

Oliver pulls into her parking spot in front of her duplex. Her car is still at Queen Consolidated, so they'll have to pick it up later; right now she's glad she chose an automatic over the standard transmission she was considering when she bought it. She opens the door and has to turn completely to get out; Oliver is already there, waiting with the crutches that she plans on burning or otherwise destroying at some point. Felicity pushes herself off the seat, holding the majority of her weight off of her injured ankle, and lets Oliver help her wedge the aluminum crutches under her arms.

Her arms are aching by the time they get to her door and her cheeks feel flushed. Oliver is a solid presence behind her, waiting patiently for her to unlock the door. Sometimes, Felicity loves his easy patience and silence.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay here, help with … whatever?" Oliver queries as she drops carefully onto the couch. "I can reschedule coffee with Laurel."

"I'll be fine, Oliver," she reassures him. "I'll probably sleep most of the afternoon anyway. Those painkillers make me drowsy. And before you ask, no, I don't mind."

"About what?"

"Your coffee date with Laurel."

There's a pause before he answers. "How did you … Never mind."

She smiles and then he's leaning over the back of the couch, where she's leaning her head, and towering over her. He's not exactly grinning, but she knows the expression on his face well enough to know that there's a chuckle lurking in there somewhere. Felicity has no idea why she can read him so well; certainly she's never been this good at reading people, except maybe for Kylie, and that's only because they've pretty much grown up together. For whatever reason, Oliver just seems to make sense to her on a fundamental level. He'll never be an open book, and there will always be parts of him that he keeps hidden, but she accepts that; even when he makes decisions she doesn't understand, it doesn't change. She feels connected to him on a basic – maybe even primal – sort of level.

"Do you want me to call later?" he asks, punctuating the question with a kiss. "I don't want to wake you if you think you'll be sleeping."

"I won't mind if I am."

He leans down to kiss her again and Felicity can't help snickering against his lips, because the upside down angle is making his stubble tickle the end of her nose. She reaches up to drag her nails carefully against his cheek, listening to the quiet rasp of the short hairs against them as she does so. Oliver is so sexy that she's pretty certain it's illegal in some parts of the world.

"Why are you laughing?" he hums against her lips.

"Your stubble tickles." She laughs and tries to duck away when he stops kissing her to rub his hairy cheek across her nose and down her cheek, but that only leaves the side of her neck open to him. He catches her before she can slide away, holding her in place while she tries not to let out an indignant (and undignified) squeal. "Stop it!"

Tickling is going on her list of things that she never expected from Oliver Queen.

"Fine," he finally agrees, huffing his warm breath against her neck.

When she turns enough to give him a half-hearted glare, one corner of his mouth is upturned in a smirk. She loves that cheeky little grin-that's-not-quite-a-smile, and seeing it lessens her irritation.

"Need anything before I go?"

She shakes her head in the negative and leans forward to steal another kiss. Felicity still finds it a little surreal that she can do that now; that she can just lean forward and press her mouth over his, slide her tongue over his lips and into his mouth as one of his (ridiculously wonderful) arms tightens around her.

"Go on," she tells him when she finally stops. "Don't wanna be late."

Now she's the one with the smirk, and it doesn't go away even after he's disappeared out her front door.

Felicity stays on the couch for a while, drifting in and out of a drugged sleep that gives her strange nightmares of disembodied voices and dead gray hands reaching out for her. After the second time she startles awake and bashes her injured ankle off the arm of the couch, she gives up trying to nap and turns her attention to showering.

The walk to the bathroom is really more of a hobble. She leaves her crutches where Oliver left them, perched against the back of the couch, and navigates her way with a hand along the walls and other surfaces instead. Once she's actually looking at her combined shower and bathtub, she stands in the doorway and stares at it with chagrin; her only two options are a bath or … maybe putting a chair or a stool in there so she can sit under the shower head. Her irritation returns because, seriously, even taking a stupid shower now feels like a lesson in logistics and engineering; not that Felicity has ever taken an engineering course (or even a logistics one), but she imagines the basic principles are the same: "how the hell do I get object A where I want it".

Felicity knows she can't manage a chair by herself – and she doesn't own one that wouldn't be ruined if she put it in water – but she does have a small footstool in her laundry room. With a quiet sigh of resignation, she makes her halting way back toward her laundry room, contemplating if this whole ordeal would be easier if she was using her crutches; a thought she dismisses as soon as she sees them, because  _man_ does she  _hate_  those things.

By the time she makes it to the laundry room and back to the bathroom, footstool in hand, there's a light layer of sweat down her back that's making her shirt stick to her and all she wants is a magical way to fix her foot. This hopping and hobbling is exhausting.

She spends a long time just sitting on the stool and enjoying the hot water when she finally manages to get in the shower. Unwrapping the ace bandage had been easier than she'd expected, and she'd spent at least a full minute just itching all the places it wasn't too painful to touch; she probably won't be able to re-wrap it as well as the doctor did, but she'll worry about that later. Right now, she's just enjoying sitting down.

Felicity is washing her hair when her thoughts turn to Oliver and his coffee date with Laurel. He'd told her that he was going to tell Laurel about their relationship before the media got a hold of it, and she wonders how Laurel is taking the news. The small, insecure part of Felicity wonders if Oliver is looking at Laurel right now and wondering why he gave up the gorgeous could-be model for an accident prone nerd with a rambling problem, but she shuts that voice up quickly. Maybe, when she'd first joined Team Arrow – a name she totally came up with – Oliver had been having a bit of a hard time prioritizing when it came to Laurel, but that's changed; since they've been together, Oliver has never made her feel anything but respected and important – even lov …

_Nope!_ She derails that train of thought before it can leave the station, because she's totally not going there. In fact, she's staying so far away from there that if "There" was a planet, she'd be orbiting two moons in another galaxy.

Felicity knows that Laurel is beautiful, and that a part of Oliver will always love her, but he's chosen to be with her and she trusts him. For whatever reasons, they seem to fit together well – even with his secrets and her lack of grace.

Getting out of the shower is even more difficult than getting in - which she would have thought impossible – because she has to move even more slowly to make sure she doesn't slip on the now wet surface. Felicity has just wrapped her hair in a towel when she hears her cell phone ring in the other room, so she wraps one around her body and starts the trek into the room. She's not sure how long she was in the shower, but her guess is that it's Oliver calling and that he's either going to tell her that things with Laurel went well, or he's going to be terse and uptight and that will be an answer in itself.

The caller ID says it was Kylie, so Felicity calls her back and puts her on speaker as she hobbles into her bedroom. Kylie asks how she's feeling and if Felicity wants or needs her to do anything for her; an offer that she appreciates, but declines. When Felicity drops the bomb about her new relationship with Oliver, her friend lets out an excited yelp and immediately starts ranting about how "she totally knew it", which makes Felicity smile. The one person she can always count on to be more enthusiastic about things than herself is Kylie.

The clock on her nightstand says that it's close to four; after a quick internal debate, Felicity forgoes regular clothes and just gets right into a clean set of pajamas. She doesn't plan on going anywhere today.

She chats with Kylie for a little longer, until something explodes on the other end of the line and her friend is offering a hasty goodbye and a promise to call back later. Felicity would be more worried if things didn't explode around Kylie on a weekly basis.

One of her soft quilts gets dragged into the living room with her so that she has something to curl up under while she watches a movie. She almost grabs Much Ado About Nothing, but then changes her mind and puts in a Pixar movie instead; tonight is an animated movie night. Her butt has just barely made contact with her couch cushions when she realizes that her ankle is still unwrapped, and that the ace bandage is still hanging on the towel rack in her bathroom. Felicity only contemplates going to get it for the span of a few seconds before dismissing the idea; she's tired, and she doesn't plan on moving again for several hours, so it should be fine.

Felicity is all settled in and the movie is barely past the ten-minute mark when her phone starts ringing. She checks the screen and then pauses the movie when the words OLIVER QUEEN flash across it.

"Hey," she greets.

"Hey. Did I wake you?"

"Nope, just started a movie. How was the coffee date?"

"Fine. Laurel was surprised, but grateful that I told her before the media did. She got a call from work and left not long after that. How are you feeling?"

"Eh, not as drugged as before. The shower was a bit of a logistic nightmare, but it helped."

"Good. I think I might have something else that'll help."

She doesn't get a chance to ask what he means, because right then there's a knock at her door. Confused, her phone still held against her ear, Felicity wrestles herself off the couch and hobbles over to open the door. Oliver is standing on the other side and hangs up his phone as soon as he sees her; the smile he'd been about to give her quickly becomes a glare.

"Crutches." It's not a question; it's really not even a statement, it's more of a reprimand. Felicity just tilts her head and glares right back at him.

His sigh sounds exasperated. Oliver steps into her space and loops an arm around her waist, and it's only then that she realizes that he has a regular looking black duffel bag in one hand; oddly enough, the top flap is open and pulled partway back.

Felicity lets him help her back to the couch, enjoying the way he braces her against his side and the solid weight of his arm on her hip.

"What's that?" she queries, motioning to the small bag after he's helped her sit.

"This is why I didn't come over earlier."

Oliver sits down next to her and then angles his body toward her, so she does the same; he pulls the duffel bag onto his lap and, for the first time in a long time, he looks … uncertain of himself.

"Oliver?" she prompts after several long seconds of silence.

"Are you allergic to animals?" he responds. The question catches her off guard so it takes her a minute to answer.

She shakes her head. "No, why?"

"Well, I found something near the coffee shop that I thought you might like, and now I'm wondering if I should have asked first."

"Well, what is it?"

Felicity is so excited that she has to fight to keep herself from squirming. Gift giving between them isn't really something that she's considered – although she should probably start, since Christmas is around the corner – so it's not lost on her that not only is this the first thing that Oliver has ever given her, it's also something completely unexpected (and for no reason).

The kitten that Oliver pulls from the duffel bag is a complete surprise. Felicity knows that her mouth has gone slack, but she's too busy staring at the now awake animal that Oliver is holding out to her; she takes it gently and starts to smile when the animal turns wide green eyes on her.

"There was a guy giving kittens out of a box," Oliver explains. "This little guy was the last one. I tried to just walk by, but … I know you hate being alone at night, and I thought, maybe, he might make you feel better."

Felicity is not crying, but she can feel that familiar tightness in her throat that always warns of an impending tear waterfall. She concentrates on the kitten (which is probably close to three months old, she thinks) and realizes that, while most of its short hair is a pristine white, there's a circular patch of black over one eye, and the entire length of one front leg is black. The markings remind her so perfectly of a pirate that it makes her smile.

"Felicity? Did I …"

"Give me the best kitten ever? Yes."

She pulls her eyes away from the cat now cradled against her chest and turns them to her boyfriend, who is watching her intently. Felicity smiles and leans forward, motioning for him to do the same, and then kisses him soundly. She kisses him a few times, because her heart is doing an unnerving swooping thing toward her stomach every time she tries to process the fact that Oliver got her a kitten to help her deal with her fear of being alone at night.

"Thank you," she says, pressing a final kiss to his lips. "He's perfect. But why did you need a duffel bag? He's not that big."

"Well I couldn't just bring you the kitten without any of his stuff."

Felicity pets the now purring kitten as she watches Oliver unpack the rest of the duffel: he's brought a bag of cat food, food and water dishes, a cat box and kitty litter, all of which look brand new. When she glances into the bag thinking he's done, she spies what looks like a pile of folded clothes.

"Those better not be for the cat," she teases.

"Those are for me. I figured it would be easier, since I'll be spending the nights here anyway."

"Nights?" Felicity repeats, stressing the s.

"Nights. Unless you tell me otherwise."

Felicity just grins in answer. "So what are we gonna name him?"

"We?" One of Oliver's eyebrows reaches for his hairline.

"We. You're the one who picked him up and brought him home." Felicity doesn't realize at first the way it sounds – the way she's said 'home' as if it's the same place for both of them – until she catches the way Oliver is looking at her. She can't read his expression, but it's serious, and she immediately tries to cover. "To me."

Nope, that sounds worse: 'brought him home to me', as if Oliver was a husband who was bringing home a surprise for his wife. She can feel the heat of the blush spreading across her cheeks.

"I mean, you're the one who brought him to me, so you should help me name him."

Her brain has kicked into overdrive to compensate for her Freudian slip, so it occurs to her that naming an adopted animal together is probably on no less than ten Internet lists of Cliché Things Couples Do and she's about to launch into another nervous ramble to try to cover up  _that_  statement when Oliver cuts her off.

"How about pirate?"

Felicity silently thanks her lucky stars that he's decided to let it go. She glances down at the kitten, at his eye patch and peg leg markings, and grins.

"I like it. Welcome home, Pirate."

Felicity lets Oliver set up the litter box and food dishes before setting Pirate down on the floor to let him explore. Oliver disappears to put the duffel bag full of clothes in the bedroom and this is what prompts Felicity to glance down at her shirt, where Pirate had been; she's not covered in cat hairs, and he looks to be a short haired cat, so maybe she won't have to deal with a lot of shedding.

Oliver reappears with her ace bandage in hand and plops down next to her. He doesn't reprimand her like she expects, just reaches down and very carefully pulls her injured ankle into his lap; his hands are warm and steady as he sets about re-wrapping it. Felicity idly wonders how many times he's had to do this, for himself and maybe even for others, but she doesn't ask. She wouldn't be surprised if Oliver played sports in high school and learned how to wrap an ace bandage because of one too many sports injuries, but on the off chance that it dredges up some darker memory she keeps her tongue.

Another thing occurs to her then, and when he's done she makes to get up from the couch only to be stopped by a hand on her knee.

"Tell me what you want and I'll get it."

"I'm not an invalid, Oliver. Well, I mean, I guess I sorta am, but …"

"What do you need?" he interrupts firmly.

Felicity sighs. "There's a key ring in my nightstand. It's got my spare house key – I want you to take it. You're gonna need it if you're gonna be staying here for a while, especially since I won't be going to the foundry. I don't want to have to let you in all the time."

"Are you sure?" he asks, but it looks like he wants to say something else.

"Just don't lose it."

She watches Oliver get up and head back to the bedroom and waits until he's no longer visible to take several deep, calming breaths. Felicity is very determinedly not thinking about the fact that just moments ago she sort-of-in-a-roundabout way just referred to her apartment as their joint home, and then followed that up by giving Oliver a key to her place. She is absolutely not going to freak out, because the key is necessary; he's going to be staying with her while her ankle is healing and it makes more sense to give him a key then to have to get up and let him in every time he leaves – especially on the nights he's out on Hood duty. It's just a key; there's nothing intimidating about a key … as long as she doesn't think about the fact that his toothbrush and other toiletry items are still here from when he left them the other day, and that there's now a pile of his clothes in her room. All he needs now is space in her closet or a drawer of his own and they'll pretty much be living together.

Okay, yeah, maybe she's freaking out a little bit because what if Oliver is freaking out thinking that she's trying to push him into something he's not ready for? What if he's not comfortable with all of this – even though he's the one who decided to stay here for a while, and he brought her a kitten and … they haven't even been together that long! Not  _together,_ together anyway – they haven't even had sex!

"Stop," a husky voice commands near her ear.

Felicity is surprised that she doesn't fling herself off the couch, because she didn't even hear him come back into the room. Instead, she goes very still. "Stop what?"

"Overthinking; freaking out; whatever you call it."

"I'm not doing either of those things," she retorts, but there is no conviction in her tone. She tries to let it go, but then her mouth pulls its usual trick of running away with her. "It's just that … it makes sense for you to have a key, but I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you into anything or …"

Oliver leaves the space behind the couch and reappears next to her, reaching for one of her hands and lacing their fingers together as he sits down. "Hey," he starts calmly, "I don't feel pressured into anything, okay? I'm here because I want to be, and you're right – it does make sense for me to have a key. So relax."

Felicity lets go of the breath that she didn't know she'd been holding and offers him a wavering version of her usual smile. He was right, she was totally overthinking things and freaking out. "Thanks."

She's about to kiss him when a ball of mostly white fur coalesces in the space between them, catching them both off guard. Pirate, who looks pleased with himself for managing the leap onto the couch, starts purring and makes a beeline for Oliver's lap. Felicity tries not to laugh at the slightly bewildered expression on Oliver's face as the kitten does a circle and then plops himself down contentedly on Oliver's thighs.

"Well now you're stuck," she says dryly.

"What? Why?"

"It's a universal rule, Oliver. Once a cat has decided to lie on you, you're stuck until they decide to move. How do you not know that?"

"I've never owned a cat," he replies.

"Never?" she repeats. He shakes his head. "What about a dog?"

"No. My father didn't want pets in the mansion."

She very wisely doesn't comment on that because, seriously, who doesn't like pets?

"Well, it looks like Pirate and I have a lot to teach you about the joys of being owned by a cat," she says instead.

"Don't you mean 'owning a cat'?"

This time Felicity does laugh; she's gonna have entirely too much fun with this.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Oliver is about a foot away from Felicity's front door, key held in one hand that's already started reaching out to unlock it, when the gravity of the situation finally catches up to him. He's been staying at her place for several days now, but this is the first time that it's really occurred to him that they've fallen into a routine that is startlingly … domestic. He has a key to her apartment, which he's about to use to let himself in so that he can eat something and relax after a day of work (and before his nightly stint as the Arrow); he knows that his toothbrush is in the bathroom, where it now occupies its own spot in Felicity's round, black toothbrush holder. The realization doesn't frighten him (although a part of him thinks that perhaps it should), but it does give him pause. The last time he'd been in a situation like this was years ago, with Laurel, and even that had been different; he'd still been living with his parents, and they'd both been so  _young_.

The last time Oliver had even been presented with the idea of being in this sort of situation, he had been so spooked by it (and the implications of what it meant) that he'd turned around and invited his girlfriend's sister to spend a few weeks with him on his family yacht.

Oliver isn't spooked this time. He doesn't know when he and Felicity would have reached this point if her ankle hadn't been injured, but the mere fact that he considers it a _when_  and not an _if_ speaks volumes to him. He is not the same person that he was all those years ago, and Felicity is …

"Pirate! Get back here so I can kick your ass!"

Well, she's Felicity; and apparently, she's frustrated.

Oliver feels the familiar pull of a smile at the corners of his mouth as he unlocks the door and lets himself into the apartment. His eyes immediately alight on Pirate, who is perched on the arm of the couch and has somehow mastered the art of looking simultaneously unconcerned and disdainful.

"Felicity?" he calls out.

"Toilet paper!"

"Uh … what?"

There's a long pause. Oliver can hear the light thumping of her foot as Felicity hops into the doorway, sans crutches, and he makes a mental note to say something to her about it. She leans one arm against the doorframe, her cheeks rosy from the exertion (and maybe her irritation), and her injured ankle held several inches away from the floor.

"Toilet paper," she says again, holding up a pile of the white tissue. "My bathroom looks like the front of a Hallmark card! He tore through at least half of the roll!"

Pirate chooses that moment to turn his head toward Felicity and yawn, which does a fantastic job of setting her off again.

"Oh, just you wait until I can walk again, you little …"

Oliver can feel a half-smile working its way to the surface as he steps toward her – effectively cutting off her view of the self-satisfied kitten – and leans down to kiss her.

"C'mon," he says when he pulls away, "I'll take care of the bathroom."

He leads her to the kitchen table instead of the couch, because he's starving and he can't talk to her if she's in the other room. For just a moment the reality of the situation strikes him again when he opens the fridge and considers what to make for dinner; behind him, Felicity murmurs something about missing her computers, and the moment passes.

"I'm going back to work tomorrow," she announces. "If I stay in this apartment one more day, I'm gonna break something."

Oliver just nods in response. Frankly, he's surprised she's managed to make it this long – it's been almost a full week since she was taken to the hospital.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait until Monday? It's almost the weekend."

"I don't care."

He doesn't mention how much trouble Pirate is undoubtedly going to get into while he's alone; he's still not sure she's over the toilet paper thing. Which reminds him …

Oliver disappears into the bathroom and is mildly surprised to discover that Felicity's description isn't much of an exaggeration, because there is toilet paper  _everywhere_. Pirate is a  _kitten_  – he's not even a full- grown cat! – and he's somehow managed to get toilet paper in the sink.

It only takes him a few minutes to restore the bathroom to its former non-Hallmark glory and then rejoin Felicity in the kitchen.

"You've told me a little about your mom," he says as he starts cooking, "but you've never mentioned the rest of your family."

"There's really nothing to mention. My dad left when I was a girl; I have two uncles who live a few hours away from the city, an aunt who lives in another state, and I'm older than my oldest cousin by six years."

"Has he ever tried to find you?" Oliver asks gently. He's not sure how the question will be received or what sort of thoughts it might dredge up; he's never really considered what it would be like to grow up knowing that one of his parents had voluntarily left his mother – and him. Sure, Robert and Moira Queen were flawed – both as people and parents, because they were human, after all – but he and Thea had grown up knowing that they were loved. Tommy …

Oliver mentally stumbles over that, because sometimes it catches him off guard just how much the thought of the best friend he lost still hurts; he acknowledges the painful twinge in his breast and then pushes it aside.

Tommy was the only person Oliver had spent any amount of time with that had a father that was absent more than he was present, and it hadn't always been like that; before the death of Tommy's mother, Malcolm Merlyn hadn't been a bad guy.

"My dad?" Felicity clarifies, drawing him out of his thoughts. Oliver nods, and she shrugs before fixing her gaze on him. She doesn't look overly upset. "A few years ago; he managed to get my phone number somehow."

Oliver dishes up their food – grilled chicken and asparagus – and takes it to the table, handing her one of the plates and sitting down next to her as he waits for her to elaborate. As the silence stretches on he thinks that maybe she doesn't plan to, and he doesn't exactly want to pry, but there are a lot of gaps in his knowledge of Felicity that he wants to fill. He wonders if she feels the same about him.

"He called me after my mom died," she finally continues. "I don't know if he knew, or if it was just coincidence. I was surprised, to say the least."

"What did he say?"

"That leaving had been a mistake, and that he'd like a chance to get to know me; barring that, he said he'd like to at least have lunch and explain himself."

Oliver found himself trying to picture the man who was half responsible for creating the remarkable woman in front of him, and found that he couldn't. "And?"

"And I told him that I wasn't interested. I didn't hear from him again."

She doesn't say anything after that. He studies her expression closely, but she seems more thoughtful than sad or upset; if he had to guess, he'd say she was remembering something.

"What about the rest of your family?" she asks after awhile. "Where are they?"

Oliver feels a little sheepish as he answers. "I'm not sure anymore; I haven't talked to any of them since before the island."

"Didn't any of them at least call after your return?"

"They did, but my mom took most of the calls; I was so wrapped in myself and … well, everything else, that I never called them back. I still haven't."

He isn't surprised to feel that familiar swell of guilt rise in his chest. He should have called them back; his cousins, aunts and uncles, all the people he called family. Oliver has been busy and his life has certainly gotten more chaotic, but that's not an excuse for neglecting to at least try to get in touch with them again. Except that he had, in many ways, done it for a reason: to keep them safe, to keep himself free from attachments that could one day endanger him, or them, or both. His secret would be much harder to keep if he hadn't estranged himself – if he didn't maintain that estrangement.

Oliver knows that he chose to be alone; that he chose this path of self-imposed exile from his family (and almost everyone else) the moment he donned that hood and became the vigilante.

Felicity's hand appears in his sight line then, sliding across the tabletop to wrap itself around Oliver's much larger one. Her nails are painted sunflower yellow today. The feel of her skin brushing over his stems the tide of guilt, a quiet reminder – a declaration that he is no longer alone.

When he looks away from Felicity's hand and into her face, Oliver's heart constricts so painfully that he can barely breathe. Her eyes are soft; her expression is sympathetic, but not pitying, and he is grateful. He knows that she doesn't understand – not really, and that's okay, because a true understanding could only come from first hand experience, and he would never want that for her – but she's there for him. She's always been there for him.

He had told her once, just before he'd kissed her what feels like such a long time ago, that sometimes she feels like the only thing that's real to him; that statement is just as true now as it was then. So much of his life is seen through different lenses, each one pinpointing and bringing into focus only one tiny sliver of who he really is, that he sometimes finds it hard to see the whole picture. The only thing that stays the same – the only thing that seems to be in focus when seen through any of the lenses of Oliver's life – is Felicity. He had never intended … could never have anticipated how much he would come to care for her; to need her. As contrary as it sounds, Felicity is the only variable in his life that remains constant.

Looking at her now, sitting quietly across from him, his mind recalls a darker image of her: huddled tightly into a corner in a different apartment with a blackened eye and angry bruises in the distinct shape of fingers on her neck. He remembers the anger that had boiled up within him instantly, a poor smokescreen for the terror of realizing that he'd come close to losing her. He remembers the tremors that had run along the lines of her body as she'd clutched at him, and every night she had (and still does) wake from nightmares.

He sees, and he remembers, and he is overwhelmed.

Oliver spans the small gap between them in a breath. He pulls her up and against his chest, quickly but carefully and mindful of her ankle; he kisses her fervently, his heartbeat a tidal wave of sound in his ears. The air in his lungs feels as if it's been replaced with helium, and each breath he takes threatens to set him adrift unless he's holding onto her – anchoring himself to her.

He stops after several long, passionate kisses, because he doesn't want her to mistake his fervency as anything but an overwhelming desire to demonstrate what he's not sure he can express with words. She doesn't want to let him go, though, because she's stretching up as much as she can to recapture his lips, and he's happy to let her.

"Felicity," he whispers against her lips. Whatever else he was going to say gets lost in the sweep of her breath as it ghosts over his chin, a heady reminder of their proximity.

"I'm here, Oliver," she answers, voice throaty and breathless. He doesn't think she means that literally.

He's still in his suit, sans the jacket and tie, and he registers the slide of cloth as she tugs his shirt free of his pants and then slips her hands underneath to drag along his lower back. The pads of her fingers roll gently as she traces his spine, and then she scratches her fingernails across the skin just above his belt and there's a line of fire igniting along his nerve endings. Oliver nips at her bottom lip in response and then feels the velvet warmth of her tongue as she licks out and into his mouth.

Felicity is almost weightless in his arms as he hefts her up, one arm around her hips and the other tangling in her pale hair as he carries her into the bedroom. He hadn't anticipated this as a result of his fevered kisses, but he suddenly feels like he can't let this opportunity to show her how he feels pass.

Her arms loop around his neck and one hand buries itself in the short hairs at the nape of his neck; he can't stop the low growl that escapes his throat when she pulls at them.

"Felicity." His throat feels tight; his voice sounds unrecognizable.

Oliver's knees come into contact with the edge of her bed; he has to stop kissing her to lower them onto the duvet, but as soon as she's safely tucked between him and the mattress he starts trailing kisses along her jaw and up to her ear. He closes his lips around the lobe and tugs at it with his teeth, then soothes the bite with his tongue. Underneath him, Felicity shivers.

The collar of her pale blue shirt hinders his trail of kisses, so he slides one hand under the hem and up her side, lingering over the gentle swell of one breast. She doesn't need any more encouragement; he moves away so she can remove her glasses and lean up, and then he's guiding the shirt up and over her head. Her hands are deftly unbuttoning his shirt when he leans in to press his mouth over the pulse point in her neck; he alternates scraping his teeth and then the tip of his tongue over it until she's pushing his dress shirt off of his shoulders.

The piece of clothing gets tossed somewhere on the floor, ostensibly to join her discarded shirt, but his attention is on the woman in front of him. Felicity looks … he's not sure there are words for it. Her hair is a cloud of gold spilling over petite shoulders; her skin is pale and pure, bright in the near darkness of her room. She's watching him with wide, dark eyes, her lips parted and lush, and his pants feel entirely too tight.

Her sunflower nails catch what little light there is as her hand comes up to splay against his chest, tracing the puckered skin of one of his scars; the hand falls away so that she can lean forward and kiss it. The tenderness of it makes that floating feeling in his chest intensify.

Then, swift as lightning, Felicity has his belt and the button of his pants undone. He doesn't have time to be surprised, however, because she wraps her hand firmly around his erection and the air leaves his lungs in a whoosh.

He catches her mouth with his, nipping at her bottom lip again as she strokes him through the cotton of his boxers. Oliver has a hard time focusing on anything but the confident slide of her hand over his length and the shocks of pleasure that it encourages; he finally manages to undo the clasp of her bra with a quick flick of his fingers and pulls it away before reaching up to cup one of her breasts. She arches into his hand, gasping and tightening her hold on him as he pinches and rolls one of her nipples between his fingers.

He's not sure how they manage to finally shed the rest of their clothes; he doesn't care. All that matters is Felicity, bare beneath him, blue eyes hooded and glittering as she watches him slide a hand down her stomach and toward the warmth between her legs. Oliver takes one of her nipples in his mouth just as he slides a finger into her, relishing the wetness he finds there and the way her hips buck up against him. He sets up a rhythm, a steady in and out, until she's breathless and murmuring his name.

"Oliver …"

There is no sound in the world he loves more than that one: Felicity breathing his name into the shadowed spaces between their naked bodies.

"Oliver," she says again, more solidly this time. "There's a condom in the nightstand."

He thinks about just ignoring her and stroking her to orgasm, but he's so hard that it almost hurts, and he doesn't want anything more than to bury himself in the tight wetness of her.

Felicity has apparently decided that he's taking too long, because she scoots away from him and toward the nightstand to retrieve the small blue and white package.

He considers it retaliation when she unrolls the condom down his length, working her hand up and down several times before guiding him down with her as she lays back.

Oliver positions himself between her legs and then hesitates, because he wants to remember this; Felicity gives him a grin the Cheshire cat would be proud of and then digs her fingers into his hipbones, pulling him down. They both gasp as he sheathes himself inside her, a wordless declaration of "finally!" that reverberates between them.

He starts with a rhythm that she easily matches, but quickly finds his control slipping. They fit together seamlessly, in a way that seems distantly familiar and completely new. Felicity is unraveling beneath him, the steady rocking of her hips beginning to devolve into something more frantic, more wild; he's never seen her more undone, more beautiful, and it pushes him right to the edge. His lungs feel too full and the pressure building low in his belly is almost too much; he buries his face against her neck, the fluttering of her heartbeat like a hummingbird beneath his cheek.

"Oh, God," she moans, hands tightening on his hips.

There is no way Oliver will ever be worthy of this, of this moment: Felicity trembling beneath him, toeing the edge of her orgasm. He has done nothing to deserve this, to deserve her, and yet here she is, and he wants to whisper promises into her glistening skin of how he'll do better,  _be_  better, but he can't. Something is broken in him; a part of him died on that island, but he wants to tell her that if anyone could breathe new life into it – into all of the dark parts of him – it would be her.

"Felicity," he sighs against her skin. He knows what that floating feeling is in his chest now, but he can't say it – it's too soon, too big and too heavy. Oliver says her name again, infusing it with as much of that nameless thing as he can, and hopes that some part of her can recognize it for what it is. "Felicity."

She tilts her hips at just the right angle, catching him by surprise, and then clenches tightly around him. There's a delicious tightening in his muscles; he can feel the orgasm building as they slide together, Felicity's nipples brushing against his pectorals.

"Oliver," Felicity whispers, arching into him. Her eyes are closed now, her head thrown back and those beautiful lips fallen open. "Oh … Oliver … I think …"

"Come with me, Felicity." He thinks he's asking her for more than her orgasm.

Oliver pulls almost all the way out and then pushes back in with one quick thrust; he thinks he hears her say "I will" and then feels her tense as she orgasms, the tightening and clenching of her around his dick sending him into his own.

For a while the only sound in the room is their uneven breathing. Oliver is laying on her but he's careful to hold some of his weight away from her; his face is still pressed against her neck, so he drops a few kisses against the underside of her jaw line. She hums in a way that makes him think she's smiling. He braces his forearms on the bed next to her shoulders and pushes himself up to look at her; her azure eyes are clear again, and she is indeed smiling.

Oliver gives her a kiss and then pulls out; he can feel the light layer of sweat drying on his skin as he treks to the bathroom to discard the condom and wipe himself down. When he gets back to the bedroom, Felicity is in a t-shirt and fresh underwear. He squints at her.

"Is that my t-shirt?"

She just shrugs and gives him a lazy grin. "Are you going to the club tonight?"

"Yeah. Digg's probably already called, wondering where the hell I am. You gonna be okay if I go?" he asks as he goes about getting dressed.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't want you to feel like I'm … running away, or something."

"I know you're not. But I will take a rain check on the after sex cuddling. For now, I think I'll just pass out."

By the time Oliver is dressed and ready to leave, it's almost half an hour past the time when he'd told Digg he'd be at the club. He checks his cell phone, sees the two missed calls from the other man and then pockets the phone. He'll call when he's on his way.

"Hey," he says gently as he sets down on the edge of the bed.

"Hmm," Felicity responds.

"I'm headed out. Call if you need anything, okay?"

"'Kay."

She's already half-asleep, so he leans down to drop a kiss on her cheek. That lightness in his chest is only getting worse, and even if it only lasts until he walks out that door, Oliver is happy. He blames all of these things for what he says next. "I'll be quiet when I come home."

He stills in shock, because he hadn't meant to say it, but Felicity seems to have missed it completely. "Be careful," she says.

_Home._ The word rattles around in his brain as he makes his way out of the apartment and toward the club. The mansion is home; he doesn't live with Felicity, he's just staying with her until her ankle is better and she can get around by herself again. He needs to remember that and not get carried away, because it's way too early in their relationship for him to be calling her home their home. Right? He doesn't want to scare her, and he remembers the way she'd started to panic when she'd given him the key; what sort of reaction would she have had to his Freudian slip if she'd been fully awake?

Well, if he's honest with himself, the mansion isn't really home. Maybe literally, yes, but it's not the type of home that most people are referencing when they use the word. There's a lifetime of happy memories in the mansion, and plenty of unhappy ones, and he's attached to it in that sense, but only that one. Oliver hasn't felt that "home" feeling since the Queen's Gambit went down; he'd known the moment he returned to Starling City that "home" was just an abstract concept to him now – unreachable. Perhaps it had something to do with what he'd been through and the parts of himself that he'd lost or destroyed on the island; then again, perhaps it was just a result of feeling like he lived in too many different worlds, and belonged in none of them.

And yet, he had not only called her apartment home – he'd meant it. He'd been thinking about it in those terms: coming home after a night of being the vigilante and finding Felicity asleep in bed, as if that was his life now; their life. Oliver feels like he might have whiplash from all of the realizations that he's having tonight: first the currently nameless bubble in his chest and now the discovery of finding that he's already comfortable in their temporary echo of a domestic life.

Digg is irritated when Oliver finally walks into the club's basement. The sight of the other man and his understandable anger at him reminds Oliver that he'd meant to call him when he was on his way, and brings him quickly into the present. He can't afford to be distracted for the next several hours; distraction breeds mistakes, and he can't afford that.

"You're late. Is Felicity okay?" Digg demands.

"She's fine, she's asleep." Oliver ignores the comment about being late, because he's not going to explain exactly what he was doing that made him late and he's not going to lie. "Do we have a location on our guy?"

They've been tracking down the leader of a small illegal arms ring that's responsible for giving children in the Glades decommissioned Russian AK-47's; Felicity had set up a program to track the weapons and where they seemed to appear in the most concentrated numbers, deducting that the area would be their best bet for a base of operations for the ringleader.

"Yes, but there's something you should see first."

Digg motions to the computer screens, one of which is displaying a wall of text that Oliver recognizes as a Starling City Police report. Curious and more than a little wary, he steps up behind the chair Felicity usually occupies and scans the document.

Rigid fingers of trepidation reach out to wrap around his heart and drag it mercilessly to the pit of his stomach. The report is of a break-in at Felicity's old apartment building – a break-in at her old apartment, to be exact, although the woman living there now was unhurt. On the surface the report looks innocuous, but Oliver sees it for what it really is: proof that the man who calls himself Lord Tennyson is back, and that he hasn't forgotten about Felicity.

Oliver's blood feels cold in his veins; the surge of adrenaline branching out from his heart makes his limbs feel heavy.

Felicity is in danger.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Felicity wraps her hands around the small white mug on the table in front of her, inhaling the scent of fresh coffee as she does so. Even her coffee snob sensibilities can appreciate the quality of the coffee here; she'd probably have to come pretty close to throwing a fit if it  _wasn't_  good coffee, because she's certainly paying enough for it. Felicity spares a second to delight in imagining what those people who complain about Starbucks would make of this place – they'd probably lose their shit. Thea had picked their lunch spot, an upscale little bistro with svelte furniture made of dark wood and plush red leather that probably cost more than a year of Felicity's rent; daunted was an understatement as to how she'd felt when they stepped through the doors and she'd quickly realized that she was one of the only patrons _not_  in designer everything. A part of her had immediately sounded a retreat –  _get out, save yourself!_  – But she'd firmly told that part to shut its mouth; Oliver didn't choose to frequent places like these, but that didn't change the fact that this was one of the worlds he was a part of. The fact that Oliver is a millionaire (it is millionaire, right? Because if it's something like billionaire, she might freak out a bit) might have escaped her notice before, being as insulated from his wealth as she had been, but not anymore; now that they're in a serious relationship, these are the sorts of things that Felicity needs to be aware of.

She's probably screwed: this is just a quiet little bistro, the only hints that it's not a run of the mill restaurant in its obviously rich furniture and classy decorations – and, of course, their prices. This is just a proverbial toe in the pool and Felicity already feels wildly out of her element; she absolutely does not want to think about what will happen when Oliver wants to take her out to a fancy restaurant, or (heaven and motherboards forbid) some ritzy dinner party with the city's elite.

"So, how's the ankle?" Thea asks after they've placed their food orders.

"Irritating," Felicity grumbles, noting Thea's answering smile. "If I never have to hop again, it'll be too soon."

"Hop? What about the crutches?" she asks, glancing at them where they're tucked next to Felicity.

Felicity can feel the faint tinge of a blush spreading over her cheeks. "I hate those even more than I do hopping."

Thea laughs and shakes her head but doesn't say anything. "Well, it's about time that we got to have some girl time. Ollie's great and all, but let's be honest – I'm so much cooler."

Felicity grins. "Obviously."

She'd been pleasantly surprised when Thea had called her that morning to suggest a lunch date. The two women hadn't had much interaction outside of the manor, but Felicity genuinely likes Oliver's little sister and thought that a few hours spent outside of her usual routine and company would be a good thing. Besides, she has a serious deficit of girl time in her life, since most of it is spent around Oliver and Digg. Her boys are great at many things, but girl talk is not one of them.

Did she really just refer to Oliver and Digg as 'her boys'? Oh man, that would have earned her a  _look_ , from both of them!

"So do you guys have any plans for Thanksgiving?" Thea queries. "Cause if not, I was thinking that it might be nice to have it at the mansion. The four of us could just do our own thing, ya know?"

"Does 'our own thing' include Oliver glaring intimidatingly at Roy?" she quips.

Thea lets out a long-suffering sigh and rolls her eyes. "It's ridiculous, right? He can't just be polite and give Roy a chance, he's always gotta go with the strong and silent, I-can-break-your-face-whenever-I-want routine."

"Well …"

"Oh, uh huh – no way!" Thea exclaims, cutting her off. "Don't you try and use that 'he's your big brother argument' on me – it doesn't work for him and it won't work for you!"

Felicity knows that she probably shouldn't be grinning, but she can't help it. "That's not what I was going to say."

"Oh." Thea deflates a little. Then, "well, the point still stands. What were you going to say?"

"That being protective is just a way that your brother lets people know that he cares, and that Roy probably understands. If he cares about you as much as he seems to, then your brother's approval – or disapproval – shouldn't deter him. And that the break-your-face thing is sort of a default setting for Oliver." Obviously she leaves out the part about how Oliver could do a whole lot more than just break Roy's face.

It takes Felicity a few seconds to realize that Thea is staring at her; when she does, the expression on the other woman's face is so familiar that it's almost unreal. Let there be no doubt that Oliver and Thea are related, she thinks.

"Speaking of Ollie …"

"Hey," a very familiar voice says then. Felicity looks up to find Oliver approaching their table, smiling slightly; a bolt of unease shoots through her, because the smile can't hide the tension sitting in the corners of his mouth – not from her.

"Hey," Felicity answers slowly, the cogs in her mind picking up speed as she tries to process his appearance. Oliver had been gone when she woke up that morning, although there were signs that he'd been there during the night and he'd left her a very vague note about needing to do something. She'd thought that was a little strange and spent a few minutes distracting herself from the freak out that she could feel threatening to overtake her. She's not immune to self-doubt – she's rather familiar with it, actually – so her brain had immediately started trying to supply ideas – like maybe the sex had been bad (for him, because for her it was …  _damn_ ) or maybe something else had spooked him. She'd thought about calling him, but in the time it took her to gather her courage in case whatever he said was decidedly  _not good_ , Thea had invited her to lunch. Felicity, in a moment of cowardice, had left a note to tell Oliver that she was at lunch with Thea and ducked out of her apartment.

Seeing him now and the tense way he's holding himself, Felicity feels butterflies mass-producing in her stomach – and not necessarily the good kind.

Then, something else occurs to her: she hadn't mentioned  _where_  they were going for lunch, and yet, here he is. Not that Oliver has a hard time tracking people down, but … why had he tracked them – and more specifically, _her_  – down?

"What's the matter, Ollie, get scared I'd tell Felicity too many blackmail stories?" Thea quips.

"Just thought maybe I could crash your lunch," he answers, and Felicity catches his gaze as he looks at her. "I haven't eaten yet, and I wanted to check in on you." He's looking at Thea when he mentions checking in, but she has the strange sensation that she's included in that statement as well.

What the hell?

"I don't mind if Felicity doesn't."

"Of course not." She motions to the ridiculously tall chair next to her, a tingle of envy going through her when she notices that Oliver doesn't have a hard time sliding onto the seat.

Felicity wouldn't feel like such a midget if she didn't spend so much time with Hulk One and Hulk Two.

One of Oliver's hands immediately finds her knee under the table and he gives it what she considers a reassuring squeeze, although she's not sure whom he's trying to reassure or why it would be needed. Unless he somehow knows that his actions that morning almost caused her a mini freak out … nah, no way.

She has a hard time paying attention after that. Part of her mind is trying to keep up with and participate in the conversation, and the other part is trying to decode … well, everything. Oliver's vague note, his sudden arrival at the bistro that she hadn't told him the name of, the way his thumb keeps tracing little patterns against her leg every few seconds … the whole thing is a bit of a mystery, and Felicity hates mysteries.

By the time lunch is over, Felicity has no idea what they've just spent the last hour and a half talking about; there's the first stirrings of a headache threatening to grace her with its presence and she has absolutely no answers for her string of questions.

Since Oliver is here and Felicity obviously won't need a ride home, Thea excuses herself with a round of hugs and a reminder about Thanksgiving plans. Felicity waits until Oliver is helping her out of the restaurant on her crutches – only realizing as they're stepping onto the sidewalk that he must have paid for her meal – to fix him with her best "don't-you-dare-bullshit-me" glare.

"Alright, let's hear it."

"What?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "You're gone this morning before I'm even awake, leave a vague note about 'taking care of something', and then magically show up on my lunch date with your sister in a place that I know I didn't name."

Felicity isn't sure why, but there's a sudden swell of anger building in her breast. Maybe it's because there's something about the intensity radiating off of him that she recognizes; Oliver is an intense guy pretty much all of the time, but there's something different about it now. This is the same intensity that she sees when something is bothering him – when something is wrong. Add to that the uncertainty of her morning and her almost freak out, and then her mini freak out when she'd walked into that bistro and realized just how out of her element she's going to be in that part of his life, and then knowing that he'd paid for her meal and wondering if he thought she couldn't afford it …

Okay, whoa there, speed racer, she tells herself; calm down, breathe. She knows that Oliver paid for her meal because he was being a gentleman; it had nothing to do with her social status. He is the last person to care about how much money she has, and she's just freaking out because, well … that seems to be the theme for her day so far.

Felicity's eyes just happen to dart over Oliver's shoulders then, just as Digg pulls the car up to the curb in front of them. It's the weekend; Digg never acts as Oliver's "black driver" on the weekends unless they're on a mission or have to otherwise keep up appearances for some reason.

Wait … "Did you guys follow me?" It comes out as more of a demand than a question.

"Felicity," Oliver starts, reaching out to cup her elbow. "We need to talk about this in the car."

The blush dusting her cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment now; she is _so_  going to rip him a new …

"Please."

That one word is enough to put a temporary hold on the explosion that's about to happen if his explanation isn't a really good one. Digg is already out of the car and holding the door open so that Oliver can help her into the car and then hand in her crutches. She's expecting something like a very serious look and a gruff explanation of something going horribly wrong at the foundry and blowing up her beloved computers; what she gets is a strangely earnest Oliver wrapping a hand around hers, complete with interlacing fingers, and a sweet, lingering kiss.

"I'm sorry," he begins, "about this morning. I didn't think about how it would look after last night. You freaked out, didn't you?"

"No." She knows her answer doesn't sound very convincing, and it's obvious in the way he's looking at her. She huffs, but the sound isn't as irritated as it could have been. "Maybe a little."

He kisses her again, which she thinks is a very nice addition to his apology. She should get him to add them to every apology from here on out.

The sound of the driver door closing draws Felicity's attention to Digg. The other man is watching them in the rear view mirror and he offers her a small smile when their eyes meet. Things haven't been exactly strained between them since he admitted to being less than ecstatic about her relationship with Oliver, but neither have they been great. She smiles back, because she misses the easy friendship that she's always shared with Digg; it's been a little difficult to be completely at ease with him when she feels like he disapproves of her personal life. Not that it's really any of his business, but still – he's a close friend, so it matters.

"Alright," Felicity says again as Digg pulls out into traffic. "We're in the car, so, explain."

Oliver glances up long enough to catch Digg's eyes, which is odd because their friendship seems to have taken even more of a hit lately than hers and Diggs'.

"I left this morning to meet with the owner of the security company that installed and monitors the security system at the mansion. He and a few of his guys are at your apartment now, installing a security system. And yes, I did ask Digg to keep an eye on you until I could catch up with you."

Felicity doesn't remember what she had for lunch, but her stomach is threatening to bring it out for an encore performance; a huge stone boulder has replaced the butterflies from earlier. All the tension and intensity that she'd immediately noticed coming from Oliver make a terrifying sort of sense now. Every nightmare that she's had in the last few months, every irrational fear of the dark, is clamoring at the lids of the boxes that she's fought so hard to keep them tucked into. She knows; she knows what Oliver is afraid to say, knows why he's having an alarm installed and asked Digg to follow her.

"He's back." Her voice sounds hollow, even to her. "Lord Tennyson; he's back."

"Digg found a police report last night," Oliver tells her, his voice soothing and his thumb brushing across the skin of her hand. "Your old apartment was broken into a few nights ago; the woman living there was unhurt. There was a note in the report about how the woman said the intruder seemed surprised to see  _her_ – not that someone was home."

"Because whoever it was, was expecting to see me." She says it, because she knows that Oliver isn't going to.

Felicity feels like what progress she's made in the wake of her attacks at this ghost man's command has come completely undone in the last few minutes. Every attempt she's made to come to terms with her fear of dying is useless; every weak reassurance that the man had disappeared - was probably gone from Starling City altogether - is reduced to cinders. He's back, and he's looking for her.

He's coming after her.

She doesn't know when she started shaking, but she finds herself abruptly pulled into Oliver's side and his lips brushing the skin of her temple. "We aren't gonna let him get to you again, Felicity; we're gonna keep you safe."

The rest of the ride to her apartment is spent tucked against the warmth of Oliver's body, his lips pressing kisses against her temple and in her hair every so often. Felicity has to concentrate on making the trembling stop and repeatedly remind herself that there is no one else she trusts more than Oliver and John to keep her safe. She personally knows what they can do, and the lengths they will and have gone to in order to protect the people close to them. Lord Tennyson doesn't have the advantage of surprise this time, either; that was lost as soon as that woman in her old apartment had reported the break in. They have been given a heads up, and Oliver is doing everything in his power to make sure that they're ready. She knows that the last alarm system he had installed for her must have been expensive, and from the sounds of it this one will be even better; she doesn't want to guess at how much it will cost him.

When they get to the apartment, the men that she assumes were installing the alarm are just packing up their work truck; Oliver leaves her standing with Digg to exchange a few words and a handshake with them.

"I've already said this to Oliver, but I'm sorry." Diggle's voice is even and sincere and it draws her attention away from Oliver. He makes eye contact and continues when he sees that he has her attention. "I know I didn't act like it, but I am happy; for both of you. I may have been doubtful at first, but the more I see the two of you together … well. I'm happy for you."

"You're not just saying that 'cause there's someone out to get me?"

Digg gives her a look like she shouldn't make light of the situation, and then seems to realize that she wasn't being facetious. "I'd like to think you know me well enough to know I wouldn't do that."

Felicity blows out a breath through puckered lips. "I do. And thank you."

Giving someone a hug while on crutches is difficult, especially when  _she's_  the one on crutches, but she manages anyway. She does feel a little better knowing that Digg seems to have gotten over his aversion to her relationship with Oliver.

Oliver looks like he's done thanking the security guy, so she and Digg make their way toward him so that the three of them can make their way to her door.

"I've reassigned some of the mansion's security guards," Oliver informs her as he unlocks and opens the door. "Digg hand picked them. There'll be eyes on the apartment at all times."

"That's …" Felicity stops and licks dry lips. She wants to say that it's too much, but she can't bring herself to spit out the words. Maybe if she were someone else she could brush off her fear, but she isn't, and she can't. "Thank you," she says instead.

She can hear Oliver explaining the security system to Digg – how to arm and disarm it, what it's equipped to do – as she disappears into her bedroom. Pirate is curled up on her side of the bed and only lifts his head when the mattress droops slightly under her weight as she sits down. He starts purring almost as soon as her hand touches his head; she spends several long seconds just petting him, focusing on the feeling of his smooth white hair gliding across her palm. She hasn't had the kitten for very long but she already loves him – even when he shreds half of a toilet paper roll in her bathroom.

Pirate is a constant reminder of just how lucky she is to have Oliver in her life. She has always been proud to know him, even back when having a relationship with him seemed like a pipe dream, and she's always been grateful for his friendship. Oliver may have done an admirable job of turning her life upside down, but she can't imagine a life without him; now, looking at the kitten that he'd gotten her on a whim – to make her feel better – her heart feels like it might burst out of her chest. She wishes, not for the first time, that she could pick up her phone and call her mom so they could have a conversation that lasted several hours as they ate ice cream and she dished about Oliver. Eleanor Smoak would have liked her daughter's boyfriend.

Felicity lays her head down next to Pirate, so close that she can feel his fur tickling her forehead, and pulls her legs up until only her feet are hanging over the edge. She focuses on the sound of Pirate's purring and tries to call up an image of her mother's face, with her laughing eyes and rosy cheeks. There are several pictures of her mother in the apartment that she can look at, but she doesn't move; she doesn't want to see the same scenes in those pictures, scenes that she's studied thousands of times. She wants to see her mother kneeling in the dirt of the flowerbed she'd so loved, little wisps of brunette hair stuck to the sides of her face as she works with her trowel; she wants to hear her yell when she comes home after a day of teaching to find Felicity with their desktop computer in pieces all over the kitchen table.

She wants to not be afraid for her life.

A large, calloused hand drops onto her hip; moments later he's signaling for her to scoot over, and then she feels the mattress shift as Oliver lays down and stretches out behind her. The hand on her hip slides down to splay over her stomach and pull her against him. He doesn't say anything; his breath warms the back of her neck and her ear.

"Her name was Eleanor," Felicity finally says, very quietly. "My mother – Eleanor Smoak. She gave me her last name and her love of classic literature and ice cream, and I miss her so much that part of me aches, but I don't want to find out if there really are pearly gates for her to greet me outside of for many, many years to come." Her breath hitches at the end and then Oliver shifts, sitting up, and pulls her up with him.

She watches him, confused, as he wordlessly sets about taking off her shoes, socks and jacket; he frees her ears of the drop earrings she'd chosen that morning. When he's apparently certain that he's gotten everything he shoos Pirate with a gentle push, pulls back her duvet and motions for her to get in. Felicity does so, a little amused and even more touched by his actions, and then watches as he kicks off his socks and shoes and climbs in with her. He makes sure he's facing her, scooting close enough that they're sharing the air, and then tangles his feet with hers. She smiles because she recognizes it: when she'd stayed at the mansion and they'd first started sharing a bed, they'd wake up every morning with their feet hopelessly tangled. Neither of them had mentioned it at the time, but now it's a sweet joke between them.

"Look at me," he commands. When she does, blue eyes locking on blue, he lays a hand on her neck and strokes her cheek with his thumb. "I'm not going to let that happen, Felicity. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"You can't promise that, Oliver."

"I can promise that if anything does, it will be over my dead body."

The words, paired with the gravity of his expression, shock her. She's not sure why, but the sentiment – uttered with such ferocity, such perfect conviction – brings literal tears to her eyes. She tries to take a deep breath, to will them away, but one escapes anyway to trace a translucent path down her cheek. Oliver swipes it away with a pass of his thumb and then he's simultaneously kissing her and pulling her closer.

"I won't let anyone hurt you, Felicity," he whispers into her mouth.

Felicity's heart is beating against her ribs as if it were some wild thing testing the bars of its cage, trying to break free; she presses herself into him, into the solid wall of his body, and slips a hand under his shirt to seek the warmth of his skin. She thinks a few more tears must have escaped because their kiss tastes salty, but she doesn't stop and Oliver doesn't seem to mind.

She runs her fingertips up and down his side, from hip to ribcage, enjoying the feel of the goose bumps that appear after a few seconds; her hand falls to his back, tracing the scars that she can reach, and then she digs her nails into the skin when Oliver nips at her bottom lip. Felicity is amazed at how much she likes it when he does that.

She has to tip her head back when he stops kissing her lips and starts kissing the underside of her jaw; she doesn't realize his hand is under her shirt until it closes very firmly around her breast and squeezes. Felicity shudders against him. The duvet gets pushed away as he makes his way down her neck with little sucking kisses and then he's lifting her shirt and pulling down the cup of her bra; she only has a moment to suck in a breath before his mouth closes over her breast, his tongue teasing her nipple to attention. She digs her nails into his back again and arches, pushing into his mouth with a moan.

He releases her nipple before she wants him to and moves down to press firm kisses against the skin of her stomach, his stubble scratching over her belly button as his lips design senseless patterns.

Felicity is having a hard time keeping a hold of any of her thoughts by the time he braces himself over her, one arm next to her head. Oliver's eyes are mostly pupil now, just a small ring of blue left around the outer edge, and there's something dangerous about the way he's looking at her that gives her goose bumps in the best way.

He presses their cheeks together, his mouth just a hair's breadth from her ear, and when he speaks his voice is rough and low. "No one will touch you with anything less than love." One of his hands has found its way between her legs and he presses his palm against her through her jeans in tandem with the word love; her brain is so busy fielding the electric shocks of pleasure sweeping through her that it takes her a minute to process his words.

This is the first time that the word love has been used by either one of them.

Felicity makes him stop long enough to pull the t-shirt over his head, quickly followed by her own. There are too many layers between them suddenly, there's too much space and air between their bodies and she's not going to stand for that any longer. She kisses him roughly, too overcome with everything to worry about finesse; when she tries to lean back and pull him down, he refuses and undoes her jeans instead, pulling them off easily. She resists the urge to squirm as he drags the pads of his fingers over the top of one of her feet, up the length of her leg and across her torso, his eyes tracking the path of his fingers. When he gets to her bra, he motions for her to arch her back long enough for him to reach back and unclasp it so that he can pull it away and toss it to the floor.

"You are beautiful, Felicity."

Felicity is trying to make the air stay in her lungs when he takes the breast he'd neglected earlier in hand and closes his mouth over the sensitive nipple. He traces her areola with the tip of his tongue before teasing it over her nipple; she can feel his erection where it's pressing against her thigh but when she reaches for him, the hand around her breast redirects to wrap itself around her wrist. Without so much as a pause in his ministrations he slides her arm across the bed until it's stretched above her and then pins it there.

"Oliver," she whines.

He switches to her other breast and then his free hand is ghosting across her stomach to make its way under the lacy band of her underwear; he pushes a finger into her sex and she can't help arching into him with a gasp. She both hears and feels Oliver groan against her skin as he rolls his hips in response, rubbing his dick against her thigh through his jeans. Another finger dips into her, bringing his open palm flush against her clit, and Felicity shudders again at the contact. She doesn't notice when his mouth leaves her breast, so caught up in the spike and rush of pleasure that he's creating with the steady, alternating rhythm of his fingers and palm.

The hand that's pinning her wrist to the bed slides up and into her open one and she interlaces their fingers instinctively, curling hers and digging them into the spaces between his knuckles as she lifts her hips off the bed.

"Oliver," she breathes, her tongue tripping over the consonants.

When he answers, his mouth is so close to her ear that his breath is a hot gust of wind down her neck. "Look at me, Felicity."

Felicity opens her eyes, not knowing when she closed them, and locks gazes with him. She's finding it hard to focus because his fingers are still working into her, his palm gliding across her clit even as she tries to focus on his face. She can feel the orgasm building, a knot of pressure at the base of her spine, and pushes it away; not yet, she thinks, not yet.

"No one is going to hurt you," he growls, the ferocity of the sentiment in direct opposition to the gentle way he's touching her. "I won't let them."

Just like that, Felicity is done being patient. She is not going to ride this wave by herself; she doesn't want to. Her free hand lashes out, grasping his forearm and forcing his hand out and away from her; he gives her a surprised look, but she ignores it and reaches for the button of his jeans. She's not sure if he meant to release the hand above her head, but she takes it as encouragement and quickly frees him of the restrictive denim.

"Condom," she says, and her tone brooks no argument.

When he gets to his knees to reach for one, she sweeps his boxers off his hips and grasps the base of his cock. Felicity slides her hand a long his length once, twice, and then she leans down to flick her tongue around the head; he groans, so she does it again before taking him into her mouth.

His hand cups the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as she mimics the rhythm he'd used on her only moments before. Felicity pulls away after a few seconds, intent on her goal, and plucks the condom from Oliver's now lax hand. She lets him shimmy out of the rest of his clothes before unrolling the condom, and then gets frustrated when she realizes that she still has her underwear on; the bright pink and yellow piece of cloth is still sailing through the air when she pulls him down to her.

"Felicity …" his voice falters, but she thinks it was meant to be a warning of some sort. "This is for you."

She fixes her eyes on his face, waiting until he's looking at her –  _really_ looking at her – so that he'll understand her words. "I need you, Oliver." It's the most coherent statement she's made since he started this, and he knows it; she sees the way the words hit him, the way his eyes darken and he clenches his jaw.

He buries himself inside her with one quick thrust, their moans mingling in the air. Her orgasm is still waiting, coiling in the pit of her stomach and at the base of her spine; she tries again to push it aside, to delay it, but Oliver fills every inch of her and the friction of their bodies as they slide together is intense. She latches onto his biceps, the bite of her nails leaving little half-moons against his skin, and lifts her legs to wrap around his hips and lock behind his back.

Felicity feels the sharp sting of Oliver pinching her nipple and trembles, closing her eyes automatically. The orgasm that's been waiting in the wings is waiting no more; it crashes over her without warning, an earthquake of pleasure that leaves her body shaking as she clenches around Oliver, calling out his name as she does so. The aftershocks are still sweeping through her body when the muscles under her hands and legs tense; Oliver comes with a breathy moan that sounds like an attempt at her name.

She lies quietly beneath him afterward. Her hands start mindlessly tracing patterns over his back, beginning with a lazy variation of binary code; before she knows it, she's tracing the letters of her name. Her mind isn't on what her hands are doing because she's busy realizing that they did not have sex; Felicity has had a sex a few times in her life, and none of those times were anything like this. In fact, last night hadn't been strictly sex either, although it was closer than what they'd just done.

Felicity thinks she knows what just happened, but she's not going to name it. She's not going to even think of the words that are itching at the corners of her mind, because … well, just because. They're not ready; Oliver's not ready. Maybe she isn't either.

"Are you branding me?" his gruff voice asks.

Her hands come to a halt right in the middle of forming what she recognizes as the letter C, a blush spreading across her nose and cheeks as she realizes what she's been doing.

"Um …"

"I like it." His eyes are twinkling when he raises his head to look at her, more blue than pupil again. He distracts her from answering by sliding out from between her legs, making her grimace at the loss of him as he rolls off the bed. "Come on," he says, holding a hand out for her.

She hasn't taken more than three steps when Oliver sweeps her easily up into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Felicity grins and doesn't argue. He closes the toilet lid when they get to the bathroom and then sets her on top of it, turning away to toss the condom in the trash and then turning on the faucet of her bathtub. He unwraps the ace bandage around her ankle while it fills, then roots around under her sink until he comes away with her lavender scented bubble bath.

Never in a million years had Felicity imagined that she'd one day be sitting naked in her bathroom, watching an equally naked Oliver Queen prepare a bubble bath just minutes after giving her one of the best orgasms of her life. The smile that's tugging at her lips refuses to be denied, because  _holy shit,_ this is her life now _._

Also, his ass looks even better out of his leather pants than in them.

"What?" he queries, catching her smile.

She shrugs. "I'm happy." She's startled to realize that she means it, despite whatever danger she might possibly be in.

Oliver smiles at her in answer, a real, dazzling smile that she rarely sees. In fact, this might be the first time she's ever seen it, and it goes straight to her heart. Any Oliver is handsome, but smiling Oliver is beautiful.

"Good," he says. He helps her step into the tub and lower herself into the deliciously hot, scented water and then settles himself behind her, pulling her back to rest against his chest. Felicity sighs, sated and content and pleasantly sore. The arm that Oliver has wrapped around her waist squeezes gently; she drops her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, smiling again when he presses a kiss in front of her ear. "So am I."

 


	8. Chapter 8

Oliver sometimes thinks there's something wrong with the way his brain is wired. There's no other explanation for why he seems to remember all the things he wants to forget, and forget all the things he wants to remember.

Like his father. He hadn't realized it until much later, of course, but one day he'd just sort of realized that all he could remember of his father was their short time on that life raft; Robert Queen's divulgence of his shame and mistakes; the split second after that gun went off the first time and Oliver had realized what was happening.

Perhaps it shouldn't be such a surprise to him, then, that now should be the moment he finally remembers his father's favorite Murphy's Law: anything that can go wrong, will.

He should have been prepared.

He isn't.

Felicity is only a few steps in front of him as she steps out of Queen Consolidated, but it feels like they're suddenly standing on separate ends of a valley. She's barely cleared the door and then nearly a dozen paparazzi are descending upon her like vultures; Oliver sees her stop suddenly, wobbling a little on her crutches in surprise as flash bulbs spark and microphones are shoved in her face.

Oliver reacts instinctively by zipping out the door, his eyes fixed on Felicity. She's backing up as he's moving toward her and her whole body goes rigid in surprise as she collides with his chest; he pulls her to him as he's stepping out to block her from the cameras, pulling her into him with one arm and holding her steady. Oliver can hear the jumble of questions being shouted at them and ignores them all.

He ducks his head, his mouth close to her ear. "C'mon, let's get to the curb." He prays that Digg is quick with the car.

They had agreed that Felicity would only work half days for the time being, because of her ankle and the tenuous reappearance of Lord Tennyson; they should have left nearly forty minutes ago, but she'd been determined to finish what she was working on and he'd (stupidly, he sees now) agreed to wait.

Oliver feels Felicity jerk against him without warning. She cries out in surprise and he looks down to see that the press of people has knocked one of her crutches too wide just as she was taking a step, hence the jerk; she's automatically tried to counter the loss by putting her foot down, but it's her injured foot and when she looks up in surprise and confusion there are huge, luminous tears standing in her wide eyes.

He has no idea that his voice has taken on that same deadly tenor he uses as the vigilante when he yells, "Stop!" There is fire in his veins, his jaw clenched against the anger, but he focuses on Felicity. He thinks he can recognize Digg's voice yelling for people to move in the background.

"Felicity," he murmurs.

"It's okay, I'm okay," she says quickly, taking a deep breath. "But I won't be doing that again any time soon."

The shock of the pain seems to have grounded her. She gives him a warning look, one that he knows is telling him to put a lid on the anger and himself because he's a little too close to boiling over; in the time it takes for him to take a deep breath and tighten the arm he has around his waist, Felicity finds a new way to surprise him.

Her head held high and her expression perfectly calm despite the way he can feel her trembling against him, Felicity looks boldly into the cameras and says, "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Like what?" someone yells.

Without missing a beat she answers, "How about finding manners, since you seem to have lost yours."

Oliver knows it's wrong; he knows that it's not a remotely appropriate reaction for the situation and that it probably has a little to do with all of the stress he's under, but for once he truly just can't help it. He laughs; a real, sharp bark of laughter that just refuses to stay trapped in his throat and catches every last paparazzo (and even Felicity) by surprise. He should have expected such a response from her, because it has Felicity's name written on it through and through: classy, and maybe a little bit ridiculous.

Digg elbows through the crowd then, reaching out an arm to bar the press from getting any closer, and together he and Digg manage to get them all to the car.

"Oh my God," Felicity is saying when he slides in after her, "I can't believe I said that, why did I say that? I should have just kept my mouth shut but my ankle is killing me and I was so pissed and you looked like you were about to arrow every –."

Oliver kisses her, both hands framing her face and absorbing the little tremors of nervous energy that are still coursing through her; he kisses her until they're both breathless.

"Felicity," he says soothingly. "It's fine."

"Did you laugh?" she asks suddenly, narrowing her eyes at him. "You laughed, didn't you? I don't think I've ever heard you laugh, and everything was such a mess I don't think I even remember what it sounds like."

Strangely – amazingly – she looks honestly dejected by the thought. Imagine that, he thinks, someone in the world is upset because they don't know the sound of my laugh.

"I have a feeling you'll hear it again," he assures her, because he doesn't want to see that look anymore. That won't be the last time he laughs because of her - for her. "Did you put all your weight on your ankle?"

She shakes her head. "I picked it up again as soon as I realized what happened. It doesn't feel too hot though."

Oliver takes a deep breath, hesitant to ask her his next question but knowing that he's put it off long enough; he looks up to find Digg watching him in the rearview mirror, a wordless sort of nudge for him to quit wasting time.

"Felicity … when did you take your last pain killer?"

"Um … I don't think I've taken one today, actually. Just Ibuprofen. Why?"

God, he doesn't want to do this. "Digg …"

"I want to teach you how to shoot a gun," Digg says when Oliver doesn't continue.

Felicity goes completely still beside him, her eyes trained on the back of Digg's head. Long seconds pass in which she doesn't make a sound, which is so unlike her usual self that the silence feels deafening; Oliver had argued vehemently against the idea when Digg had first proposed it to him. They'd bickered for a good twenty or thirty minutes before Oliver had finally caved, before he'd finally agreed to Diggle's point that with the current state of her ankle, she is mostly defenseless. There would be no running away if she was somehow attacked again. Oliver had tried to argue around it: she still had the baseball bat Kylie had given her, and the Taser, and there had to be something else they could do …

"A gun," Felicity repeats very softly. "You want me … to shoot a gun?"

"I want you to know how," Digg says calmly, reasonably. "I want to know that if something happens and you get into a situation where it becomes necessary, you can protect yourself."

Oliver watches her carefully, watches the way she bites the corner of her bottom lip in apprehension and tugs at the fingers of one hand with the other; he takes her hand and folds it into his, squeezing reassuringly and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. He can't make this choice for her, even though the denial is on the tip of his tongue, because in the end Diggle is right and he needs to know that they're doing everything to make sure she has her best chance. Oliver will literally give his life to keep it from coming down to any situation where she might need such a skill, but … well, there's always a but. He's learned that in the last few months as well.

"Okay," she agrees finally, voice wavering slightly.

Oliver feels like his stomach has just been coated in lead; in the driver's seat, Digg just nods and points the car toward the mansion.

Ideally they would be teaching her on a shooting range, but Oliver had vetoed that idea. He doesn't want it to get out that he's teaching his girlfriend slash assistant how to shoot a weapon because that will just invite all manner of questions; the appearance of the press earlier only cements his belief that it's better to do it in private, on the land that his family owns. He can be sure that they aren't being watched there, and there's plenty of room for her to learn without being a danger to anyone.

He just really hopes Thea isn't home.

When they get to the house Digg drops them off in front and then disappears to drop off the car and set up for their informal training session. Oliver has already told him the best place to set up and where to pilfer some of the gardener's unused bags of sod from, which will be decent stand ins for targets.

Oliver forces himself to think about something else, because his stomach is already little more than an acidic knot. His mind may see the logic of Felicity knowing how to shoot, but everything else in him just sees how  _wrong_  it is.

He calls for Thea a few times as they make their way toward the kitchen; the lack of an answering yell tells him that they've gotten lucky, and that his sister isn't around to wonder what they're doing and why. Oliver retrieves some Ibuprofen and a glass of water for Felicity and notes the way her hand is already shaking as she raises it to her lips.

"You don't have to do this." His voice sounds rougher, more aggressive than he intended and he immediately reaches a hand out to cup her elbow.

"I know," she answers when she's downed the pills. "But Digg is right. If something happens … I obviously won't be able to fight or run away, so – ya know." She shrugs, as if trying to undermine the weight of the implications, and he hates it.

"Felicity …" he starts.

His girlfriend takes a deep breath and fixes him with a serious expression that tells him that her mind is made up. "I don't like it either, okay? But Digg is right, and if it comes down to it … I won't be a victim, Oliver. Not again."

So he helps her out of the house and across the grounds, understanding where she's coming from and proud of her resolve and terrified in ways he can't identify. This is her choice and he'll support her, but he silently vows that his body will be cold and lifeless before anyone ever gets close enough to Felicity Smoak to hurt her again.

Diggle is waiting for them in a small copse of pine trees; a few yards away he's stacked two bags of sod on top of each other and drawn large red circles over their plastic wrapping.

When Digg had finally gotten him to agree to present the idea to Felicity, they had also agreed that Digg would be the one to teach her if she accepted. As much as he hates the idea of Felicity with a gun, Oliver does feel a little better knowing that Digg will be the one teaching her. The other man is a war veteran with extensive combat training – and Oliver has seen that training in action.

Oliver takes up a spot behind his friends. He's too tense to sit so he leans a shoulder against a large pine tree and folds his arms, watching as Digg helps Felicity find the best stances with her injured ankle; her crutches are laying in the grass next to Diggle.

"Okay," Digg is saying as he pulls out a pair of ear protectors, "Obviously you won't have these in an emergency, but we'll talk about that in a minute. Usually you'd be wearing a pair of safety glasses as well, but you don't have your contacts in, so we'll make do."

The glasses are Oliver's fault; he was supposed to broach this subject with her before they left the apartment this morning but he'd been unable to bring himself to say anything. A stupid move on his part, he knows, but he hadn't been considering whether or not she'd be wearing safety glasses at the time.

When Digg finally produces his side arm, Oliver tenses. Felicity's expression is pure concentration as the other man runs her through how to unlock the safety and the basic mechanics of the weapon; her hand is only a little unsteady when she takes the sleek piece of weaponry from him. He feels like time has slowed to an unbearable crawl as she points the barrel at the ground long enough to cover her exposed ear with the ear protectors and then gets into the stance Digg showed her. She waits for her friend to make small adjustments to the angle of her arms and shout one last "remember to keep BOTH eyes open" at her before stepping back and leaving her alone with the target.

Oliver glances at his friend, who somehow looks perfectly calm, and then back to Felicity; he takes a breath and then the loud  _pop_ of a bullet leaving the chamber resonates through the trees. He stays propped against his tree while Digg steps forward to get her attention and safe the pistol; Oliver stays put as they walk to the target, exchange a few words, and make their way back.

This time when she shoots, Felicity empties half the clip. When she and Digg return from looking at the target a second time, there's a strange look on Digg's face and Felicity looks … surprised?

"What?" he queries, pushing off the tree.

"She's good," Digg answers. "Every bullet hit the target." He doesn't say anything else, but Oliver gets the feeling that it's only because he doesn't want to say whatever is on his mind in front of Felicity.

Digg walks her through it a few more times. Oliver isn't really listening anymore; he's busy trying to reconcile the sight of her slender hands on the grip of a pistol, pastel purple finger nails a stark contrast to the matte black finish beneath them. An image surfaces then, unbidden, of a man lying in a pool of blood on an apartment floor with an arrow in his chest and Felicity unconscious next to him. He can still remember the look in her eyes when she'd asked him if she'd killed her attacker, and the one right after when he'd told her no. He hadn't lied, exactly: Oliver's arrow in the man's chest had killed him. No one but Oliver and the coroner needs to know that he would have died anyway.

Now, as he stands in the middle of tall pines behind the manor on a chilly November afternoon, Oliver wonders if this is what he's doomed her life to be like. Has he brought nothing but darkness and shadows to the brightest spot in his life?

"Stop it."

Her voice startles him out of his reverie. Felicity is standing just in front of him while Digg is gathering up the evidence of their impromptu gun training. She looks a little tired, but she's not shaking like she was before.

"I know that look, Oliver, and you can just stop it right now."

He pushes away from the tree and kisses her, ridiculously grateful that she's no longer holding Digg's side arm. There's no point in asking her what she's referring to, because he's come to terms with the idea of Felicity being able to read even the smallest nuances of his expression. Maybe it's stupid, but Oliver likes knowing that there's at least one person who he can never truly hide from; Felicity sees him clear as day, and while at first it had frightened him, now he finds it comforting.

"Let me give Digg a hand. I'll be back."

Oliver joins the other man at the makeshift target. This close, he can see what Digg had meant: every bullet that she'd shot had hit the target, and while only a few of them were in the center circle, they were all grouped rather tightly together.

"So, our IT girl is a good shot," he says dryly, hefting one of the bags of sod off the other.

"Maybe it was beginner's luck," Digg answers as they haul the stuff back to the gardener's shed. "Won't the bullet holes raise questions?"

"Jake has been working here a long time – nothing phases him." Then, "Do you really believe that?"

"Stranger things have happened, but, no. I don't believe that. I think that Felicity just has an uncanny knack for aiming, which is saying something because our girl was terrified."

Oliver just gives a curt nod and leads Digg back to where Felicity is slowly making her way across the grass. He doesn't need to be reminded of the way she'd been shaking the whole time that gun was in her hand.

"How's your ankle?" Oliver questions when they're together again.

"Okay. I'll be grateful to get off of it for awhile though." Her words are punctuated by a loud growl from the general vicinity of her stomach, which brings a smile to Oliver's face.

"I'd say a little food is in order," Digg teases. Oliver thinks maybe John is just as glad to see a smile on her face again as he is.

"Pizza?" she suggests hopefully.

"Pizza sounds good," Oliver agrees.

"But …"

"Make sure it's stuffed crust," Oliver and Digg finish in unison.

Felicity grins and nods. They make their way into the manor in companionable silence; when they get inside, Oliver points both of them in the direction of the sitting room and grabs the phone to make the order. He doesn't stop to wonder what they want, or yell into the other room to ask; he just waits for the guy on the other line to ask for his order and then rattles off all of their favorite toppings with practiced ease. He'd memorized all of their favorite food orders a long time ago, over late nights in front of surveillance footage and building schematics.

When he joins Digg and Felicity in the sitting room, the television is on and tuned to a news station; he doesn't get a chance to ask them what they're watching.

"…Queen and his new leading lady as they were leaving Queen Consolidated earlier today. Ms. Smoak is an employee …"

The television screen fills with a high -resolution picture of them; Oliver has his arm around her waist and one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile as Felicity gives the paparazzi a veiled glare. He gets the space of a breath to register that they really do make a stunning match, and then Felicity is swinging into full freak out mode.

"Oh my God," she murmurs, "What the hell was I thinking? I showed them my face!"

"Hey," Oliver starts, moving around the couch to sit on the other side of her.

"I showed them my face, Oliver!" she interrupts, her expression horrified. "That was stupid, that was so stupid, but I was just angry and I wasn't thinking … all he has to do is turn on the news and there I am! That Tennyson bastard! And now the paparazzi know that we're dating and …"

"Felicity!" Digg's voice is loud and sharp in the relative quiet of the mansion, effectively stopping her mid-rant. Not quite the route Oliver would have gone, but it does the trick.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes in the way she always does when she's trying to calm down. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Oliver assures her. "You didn't tell them anything, and I think it's safe to assume that whatever information is available to the press is also available to that man. At the worst, now he knows that you spend a lot of time with your rich boyfriend and his bodyguard."

"Okay," she nods after a few steadying breaths. "You're right. I just panicked. It's strange to see myself as part of the daily news, ya know? I mean, I sort of knew that something like this might happen, obviously, but it's weird to actually see it."

"And that newscaster wasn't exactly pleasant," Digg adds. Oliver pins a glare on him, but Felicity actually chuckles.

"He's right. She basically found a nice way of calling me the flavor of the week."

"Month," Digg corrects.

"Right. My bad."

Oliver shakes his head as Felicity laughs again and grins at Digg, who gives her an answering smile. He feels better knowing that they're at ease with each other again, because Digg and Felicity have had an easy friendship from the get go. She hadn't said much about it, but Oliver knows how it had bothered her to think that Digg didn't support their relationship. The three of them are not only a team, they're friends – family, really; even the smallest bump in their cohesiveness feels huge. Seeing Felicity and Diggle laughing and joking together again helps ease the knot of tension that he's been carrying around.

"You're not upset?" Oliver asks curiously.

"About a jab from a newscaster who has never met me? Nope," Felicity answers. "I figured someone would probably make that sort of comment. The media may know your history, Oliver, but I know _you_ , and our relationship is no one's business but our own."

Oliver hasn't spent a lot of time wondering what sort of reaction Felicity would have to the media coverage of their relationship, but seeing the cheeky grin and relaxed posture she's sporting now does a lot to reassure him that she honestly doesn't care what anyone has to say about them. He's never been anyone but himself, the son of a business mogul and billionaire, so being in the news is old hat to him – but he understands that not everyone would be so unconcerned with the idea of being a target for the paparazzi simply because of who they were dating.

They move in for a kiss at the same time, meeting each other halfway as Digg makes mock-disgusted noises in the background.

"Is this what I can expect now?" he teases. "Impromptu make- out sessions?"

"We should probably start carrying spray bottles," Thea pipes up out of nowhere. "Ya know, like people do with cats."

"Where did you come from?" Oliver questions when he pulls away from Felicity.

"Well, Ollie, when two people love each other very much …"

Her smart- ass retort is cut off by the throw pillow that Oliver tosses at her, which she barely manages to catch before it collides with her face. "Just for that, you get to answer the door when the pizza gets here."

"Oh, you ordered pizza? Awesome!"

"There's not enough for you," Oliver retorts, looking away from Thea long enough to hold up one of his arms so that Felicity can duck in underneath it and curl into his side.

"It's not even here yet!"

"Be nice to your sister," Felicity chides teasingly.

"Oh boy," Digg grumbles, trying to hide his grin. "They've started ganging up on you, man. It only gets worse from here."

Most of the moments in Oliver's life that he wishes he could hold onto and permanently imprint in his memory are the little ones, just like this one: sitting on the couch with Felicity against him, teasing his sister and being teased by Diggle. These are the sorts of things worth remembering; these are the sorts of things that help him get past the vision of Felicity with a gun in her hands, or the last look his father had ever given him.

These moments and these people are what Oliver would die to protect.

Later, he'll wish he had spared one last thought for Murphy and his damned Laws.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Felicity loves movies; she's seen a lot of them. She enjoys almost every genre, although she thinks horror movies are mostly clichéd and more gory than scary; she has a huge soft spot for Disney and Pixar movies that she'll most likely never outgrow. She can't get enough of the superhero and action movies, and it's a huge bonus if they have romantic subplots. She's not sure she'd call herself a film buff, but it's probably fair to say that she's not far off.

So, later, she'll wish she could say it happened like it did in the movies: dramatic background music - maybe even an explosion or two - as the star-crossed lovers tried to reach each other through a mass of scary henchmen who, inevitably, manage to separate them.

But no; much like everything else in life, the movies got it wrong.

That's not how it happens at all.

Instead, it happens like this: she falls asleep.

She dreams.

There are no images in Felicity's dreams, only colors: disembodied clouds of browns and blacks, cut through with gossamer ribbons of reds and whites and the occasional splash of green or blue. There's even one or two smells that she can't immediately place, although she thinks that she's smelled them before; when she wakes, she won't remember having smelled them at all. She won't remember anything except the colors and lack of discernible images; how she dreamed dreams that were little more than abstract paintings, splashed across imperfect canvases.

Felicity wakes slowly. She feels groggy; she feels as if she's been struggling to wake for a long time, as if it were some kind of battle just to open her eyes. It's strange, because she only ever feels that way when she gets sick and finally gives in and doses herself with Nyquil to help her sleep.

She blinks against the light assaulting her bleary eyes and reaches out for her glasses, but her hand just falls through cold air and smacks off of colder metal.  _What?_ She shifts to her side, and the realization that the surface beneath her hip and shoulder is not her mattress is slow to come; when it does, her blood feels like it's turned to sludge in her veins. Her brain spins into action like the cog of a clock, trying to recall the knowledge of where she is and why she's there, but is met with nothingness.

The panic is setting in, electrifying her nerve endings as she pulls herself into a sitting position. The last thing she remembers is … she's not sure; she remembers being at the mansion, eating pizza and laughing with Thea and Digg and Oliver, but that's it. Why can't she remember going home? Or going to bed?

Trying to quell the rising tide of fear that's trying to take over, Felicity squints and starts sweeping her hands slowly over the ground around her. She wonders if "ground" is even the correct term, since she can't think of anywhere that would have one made of metal; concrete, tile, wood … any of that would have made sense, but metal?

The tips of the fingers on her left hand brush against something smooth, startling her. Felicity scoots to the side a little, trembling as she extends her fingers as far as they will go and trying not to imagine all of the terrible things that she could be touching. She follows the lines, traces the edges, and then lets out a shaky but relieved breath when she identifies what she's touching: her glasses. She snatches them up and slides them into place on her nose.

Her eyes sweep her surroundings: the metal floor is covered in patches of rust and the walls are sort of off white, but the paint is peeling. The room is empty, save for her.

Felicity's heart stutters and then drops into her stomach when her brain finally matches the images with a word: ship. She is on a ship; she has to be. What else would have metal floors? The panic is back in full force, closing her throat and narrowing her vision: why the hell is she on a ship? How did she get here? She tries to concentrate, but she can't feel even the gentlest of rocking. Does that mean they aren't moving?

Were they moving before?

She's spiraling quickly into hysteria as the scenarios pile on top of one another: how far is she from Starling City? How long was she out? How's she going to get out of this?  _Can_  she get out of this?

Where is Oliver?

"Stop," she says aloud, forcefully. Her voice echoes in the small space.

Felicity takes a deep breath and holds it, counting backward from ten before releasing it. When she does, she forces herself to take stock of the situation: she is on some kind of ship – quite possibly in the brig, if those sorts of things still exist; she has no memory of the last several hours (possibly even more than that); she has to assume that wherever Oliver and Digg are, they are out of her reach (or she is out of theirs). She is alone.

Her injured ankle chooses that moment to send a flare of pain up her leg, reminding her that she's not only alone, she's injured.

"Don't even think of panicking, Felicity," she hisses to herself. She does it mostly to fill the silence.

She goes back to cataloging her prison – because that's undoubtedly what it is, despite the fact that she is neither chained nor cuffed. Whoever this Lord Tennyson bastard is, he's apparently certain that she won't be escaping. Whether or not that proves to be true, Felicity is thankful for her (limited) freedom.

She's only a few inches away from the wall that's farthest from the only door in the room; there's a single window to her right, small and round. That gives her a goal, at any rate; she scoots across the cold floor the few inches to the wall, bracing herself against it with one hand and laboring to pull herself up and onto her one good foot. There's no sign of her crutches. Resigned, she hops forward; the moment she does so she knows it's a mistake. Trying not to panic has kept her from realizing that her limbs feel too heavy and her movements sluggish. She must have been drugged, and whatever is in her system isn't completely gone; her foot reconnects with the ground, but her muscles are not up to the challenge of holding her weight and she crashes to her knees. Tears spring to her eyes as her kneecaps smash into the metal and she automatically throws out her hands to stop her fall, feeling the skin on her palms rip away as they slide against the surface.

Long moments pass before Felicity can gather herself. In the end, the reminder of where she is and the situation she's in are what bring her back to herself. Ignoring the pain, she manages to half- crawl, half -pull herself over to the wall with the window. She scrambles up the wall, latching onto the small lip of the window when she can reach; a bitter wave of disappointment washes over her when she realizes that, although she can reach it, she's not actually tall enough to look out the window.

She drops her forehead against the forearm that's stretched out against the wall, irritated with herself when a hot tear falls into the crook of her elbow.  _You don't have time to cry_ , Felicity reprimands herself.  _You have to keep it together if you're gonna have any hope of getting out of here._

Her inner pep talk comes to a screeching halt when the sound of metal grating on metal fills the room. Felicity whips her head around to stare at the door, which has just been pulled open; she blinks against the light and then someone is stepping through the doorway.

"You're finally awake," a smooth baritone greets. He sounds happy to find her so.

Felicity makes no reply. The door swings closed behind her visitor with a groan that seems to echo through the entire ship; she wonders if that means that it's old, or if that's just a thing that all ships do.

"How are you feeling?"

She ignores the question, watching him warily as he stops in the middle of the room with an expression that she would call welcoming if this were any other situation. He is, surprisingly, rather good looking; if she had to guess, she'd put him in his late forties, but the really disarming thing is that he looks … not unkind. If she were to pass him on the street, Felicity would take him for a regular suburban dad with a nine-to-five job and a BMW.

Which is terrifying, actually.

"Now that you're awake, we can finally have a conversation," the man continues, as if she hadn't ignored him. "Allow me to introduce myself: I'm …"

"The asshole who calls himself Lord Tennyson," she bites out before she can stop herself, "which is quite the misnomer, since you don't even have an accent."

"Are you sure about that?" Tennyson challenges, sounding perfectly English.

"Great," Felicity mumbles. "I've been kidnapped by an idiot with a knack for imitating accents."

She knows that her mouth is going to get her in trouble, but sarcasm is really the only defense mechanism she has at this point. Felicity is trying very hard not to tremble – which isn't helping – and her hope is that the more she focuses on the snide remarks the less she'll feel like curling up in a corner and sobbing until she passes out.

Tennyson's smile doesn't even falter; he actually looks amused, which just pisses her off.

"As I was saying," he continues, the accent gone. "My name is Kaeden Ellis, and I have been looking for you for quite some time. You seem to have information, Ms. Smoak, that is very important to me."

Felicity tries to keep her expression calm, impassive; her good leg is starting to shake from supporting all of her weight, though, and her sluggish muscles are threatening to give out on her. Being on her feet doesn't give her much of an advantage since she's only got one that's currently worth a damn, but she hates the idea of sitting down while he's in the room.

Her leg makes the decision for her. She wobbles unsteadily, barely able to tighten her grip on the small lip of the window before she collapses; as carefully as she can she slides herself down the wall, her eyes never leaving her captor. He doesn't seem to notice – or care – about her change of position. She pulls her knee up against her chest, locking her fingers together around it to keep it against her as if it were a barrier instead of a limb.

The part of her brain that isn't actively keeping up with what's happening realizes for the first time then that she isn't in a dress or skirt, but jeans. Wherever she was before this, it definitely wasn't work; it's a small piece of the puzzle, but it's something. She'll have to think about it later.

"What information do you think I have, exactly?"

"Oh, I  _know_  you have it, Ms. Smoak, just like I know it was given to you by Walter Steele."

Her heart is banging fiercely against her ribs; she concentrates on the way her lungs expand every time she takes a breath to try and slow it down, before it cracks through her chest and flies away.

"It's a small book," Tennyson – Ellis continues. "Plain cover, blank pages. I need that book, Ms. Smoak, and it's in your best interests to give it to me."

"My best interests?" Felicity repeats, narrowing her eyes. "You're holding me hostage on a ship – somehow I doubt that my best interests have even crossed your mind."

She frantically casts back through her memories, trying to pinpoint how this man could know about The List or that she had been in possession of it at some point. Never mind that she had given it to Oliver years ago – and she hopes that he doesn't know that, because that will just add another complication onto a pile that is already hopelessly huge.

"The book." Ellis' tone has finally lost that cheery note that she hates, but she doesn't like the one that's replaced it any better. The man isn't quite glaring at her, but he's awfully close; her sarcasm and attempts to dodge his questions must be wearing on his patience.

"In case you haven't noticed," she snaps, "I'm kind of not in my apartment at the moment. What do you want me to do, pull it out of thin air?"

Ellis is deceptively quick; his designer slacks and gray button down shirt barely rustle as he flies across the room to lock a large hand around her throat and squeeze. His face is only a few inches from hers, hazel eyes sparking in restrained anger.

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, little girl. I know that book isn't in your apartment. If it was, my men would have found it."

Felicity's line of sight is starting to darken around the edges from the lack of oxygen, her lungs burning. She has the fleeting thought that this is what started this nightmare: a stranger's hand around her throat, trying to choke the life out of her. Except this time there's not a lamp in sight, and she doubts that such a trick would work on this man.

He releases her as quickly as he'd grabbed her, leaving her gasping as she sucks down air and ignores the sting of her throat – inside and out.

"All you have to do is tell me where it is," Ellis tells her, smiling at her as if he hadn't just been choking her. "I can do the rest."

"Or you can go to Hell," she rasps. "I think I like that option better."

_Why can't you ever just shut up, Felicity?_ Her inner voice sounds a lot like Digg, and she finds that a little comforting even as she waits for her captor to lose his cool again.

Nothing happens. Ellis stares at her for a few silent seconds, apparently once again in control of his temper, and then shrugs before turning around to the door and knocking loudly. "Suit yourself, Ms. Smoak. We'll see how long this false bravado lasts."

The door swings open and he disappears through it without so much as a backward glance. Felicity stays in her spot against the wall for what feels like forever, her knee pulled to her chest and ghosting the fingers of one hand over the places where his hand had been.

She doesn't notice that she's shaking for a while. Fear is the obvious culprit, but she wonders if it might also be her body trying to flush the rest of whatever drugs they gave her out of her system. Her injured ankle is throbbing steadily and her knees and palms aren't far behind in protesting her recent treatment of them; she finally decides to lie down and stare at the ceiling, tracing invisible lines as she tries to make sense of everything.

Why does Kaeden Ellis want The List? What makes it important enough to him to have her attacked, hunted and then kidnapped?

What does he plan to do with her after she gives it to him? Which she is most certainly not going to do, of course, and wouldn't even if she did have the book, but it is worth thinking about because she highly doubts that even that would convince him to just let her go. Bad news for her, since she not only doesn't have the book, she also legitimately has no idea where it is. Oliver had stopped crossing names off that list a long time ago, and she hasn't seen it since; for all she knows, he destroyed it.

Thinking about Oliver effectively derails her current train of thought and sends her down another one. She hopes that wherever he is, he's okay, and that Digg is as well. Not being able to remember what happened to her is terrifying, made even more so by the idea that something terrible could have happened to her loved ones and she would have no idea.

The grumbling of her stomach is loud and unexpected, dragging Felicity out of her thoughts and into the present. How long has it been since she last ate? She doubts that her hunger will be remedied any time soon; the thought of food naturally leads her to the thought of water and the realization that she is ridiculously thirsty. Felicity isn't going to hold out hope for the arrival of a glass of water any time soon, although when she thinks about it that might be a blessing in disguise because her prison is markedly devoid of a toilet.

In an effort to forget her physical wants and needs, Felicity props herself up on her elbows and redirects her attention to her clothes. She's wearing her favorite pair of comfortable jeans, a little old and worn at the knees; the left one is torn from her fall earlier, and she can see the faint lines of blood on her knee. She ignores it. Her t-shirt is just a black Hanes V-neck, nothing special, and she's wearing her sneakers (well, one of them anyway); overall, she's dressed in weekend clothes that she usually wears when she's not planning on going anywhere.

Does that mean she was taken from her apartment? She hopes not, because there was a security detail there and she's afraid to wonder what that means for the men on duty.

With a sigh, Felicity carefully lays her head back down on the cold metal and very determinedly fights back the tears pricking the back of her eyes.

Everything about this situation is very, very bad.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Oliver bites the inside of his cheek, as if the sheer force of his will can somehow override the physical limits of his body and pop his dislocated shoulder back into place; he can't get out of the handcuffs without the use of both arms, and he  _has_  to get out of them. Digg is unconscious and bleeding a few feet away from him, also handcuffed despite his current incapacitation. They had both put up one hell of a fight, but Digg had been the only one with the gun, and apparently the only one their kidnappers had deemed a considerable threat. An oversight that will work in Oliver's favor, if he can manage to get these damned handcuffs off.

Focusing on what he can do is also the only thing that's keeping him from focusing on everything else, like the fact that Digg was shot several hours ago and is starting to look pale; or the fact that their car had been sideswiped and the last thing Oliver had seen was Felicity, unconscious and being dragged away.

He can't do anything about those things until he does something about the handcuffs.

There's nothing in the tiny room that can help him pick a lock and he can't reach his own pockets, but he's holding out hope that Digg might have something secreted away in a pocket or sock that could be of some use. Oliver scoots himself closer to his friend and turns around, keeping track of where he's placing his hands by watching over his shoulder. The last thing he needs is to have Digg wake up wondering why Oliver is groping him. He wishes Felicity were here, because he could probably make her laugh if he said that aloud.

Diggle's pockets are empty and Oliver is getting frustrated when his eye catches the pale glint of something against his shirt; when he looks closer, he realizes that their attackers have left Digg's tie tab on. If he had the use of his hands, Oliver would fist pump to end all fist pumps.

Everything takes longer when only one arm is viable, but he manages to get the tie tab off Diggle and pick the lock on the handcuffs in under twenty minutes. At least, he thinks it's twenty minutes; he really hopes it isn't much longer than that, because he can only assume that he's working against the clock here.

There have been few times in his life that Oliver has been truly grateful for the training he received on the island, but right now is one of those times. Only strict discipline keeps him from making a sound as he pops his dislocated shoulder back into place, and he only allows himself a few deep breaths before turning his attention to more pressing matters. The first of which is getting Digg's wound taken care of.

The bullet hit him in the shoulder and looks to have gone through and through, thankfully, because he doesn't have anything to extract a bullet with. Oliver strips out of his business shirt and rips it into several long strips, using it to pack the wound as best he can. Diggle stirs a little and gives a few wordless grunts of pain, but does nothing beyond that. The fact that he registers pain at all is a good thing.

"Hang in there, Digg," he murmurs.

Oliver's next dilemma is how the hell he's going to get out of this room. His best guess is that this is a cargo ship because there's a deliberate lack of windows and any sort of ornamentation; he fervently wishes that it was a yacht or a speed boat or something similar, because cargo ships are notoriously large and he doesn't have the slightest idea where to find Felicity.

He tries the door first, but it's locked. Oliver examines every hinge, every possible weakness, but comes up with nothing: there's no way for him to dismantle or otherwise circumnavigate the door. All he can do is wait and hope that someone comes along to open it.

He paces. He orchestrates and plans dozens of escapes in his head as he goes, trying to plan for every eventuality and foreseeable obstacle while knowing that he can't possibly think of everything; he checks and double checks Diggle's bandage, marking the gradual slowing of his bleeding and timing his breaths to make sure he's not getting worse. Oliver does everything he can think of to keep himself from thinking about the one thing that his thoughts keep turning to: Felicity.

Is she okay? Is she awake? Frightened? Where are they holding her? How will he find her? These questions and more are threatening to drive him crazy because he can't even begin to answer them until he gets out of this room. Thinking about the possibility that Felicity is anything but perfectly fine fills him with a burning rage, but mostly Oliver is angry with himself: he'd promised her – repeatedly – that he would keep her safe, and he had failed.

Oliver's ears catch a sort of double drumming that makes him immediately stop pacing; sure enough, there's another set of footsteps ringing against the metal and they sound like they're headed for him. A rush of adrenaline floods him as he quickly reseats himself in an approximation of his earlier position; he purposely sits closer to the door and then hides the handcuffs behind him. His shoulder may be back in its rightful place but it's still weak and a little sore, so he can't expect to exert as much force as he usually would in hand to hand combat. He'll have to compensate; luckily, whoever is outside that door doesn't know that, and he has the element of surprise on his side. Their captors think he's just some rich businessman, and he's going to use that assumption against them.

The door is still swinging on its hinges when Oliver lunges for the person stepping through it. He slams his good shoulder into the center of mass, dimly registering the grind of bone against bone as they stagger backward. The man cries out in surprise, but something about the sound of his voice surprises Oliver, who pulls the punch he's about to land.

When he realizes whom he has pinned to the wall, Oliver is stunned. "Eric?"

Oliver isn't always great with faces, but he knows the one in front of him: Eric Pyper does work for him, after all. At least, he used to anyway.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Oliver demands, not releasing his hold on the younger man.

"It's … a long story," Eric answers, obviously uncomfortable. "And now isn't really the best time for stories. You need to let me go, we won't get another shot."

"Shot at what?"

"Getting Felicity out of here."

Those are the magic words. Oliver moves away from Eric, although he doesn't take his eyes off of him as the other man shoves away from the wall and steps toward the still open door.

"Hurry up," Eric hisses at him as he steps out, "hopefully no one heard that little scuffle."

"What about Diggle." It's more of a reminder than a question.

"We'll come back for him. Now shut up and move your feet."

Oliver keeps one half of his concentration on following Eric, as quietly and closely as he can, which is made harder by the fact that it's still daylight out; Eric seems to have every corner and turn memorized, though, and doesn't falter in his duties as a guide. The other half of Oliver's concentration is spent on putting the pieces of it all together: Eric is obviously Tennyson's man, and must be how he knew about Felicity having once possessed Robert Queen's List. Which means that Queen Consolidated has had a mole for an alarmingly long time, and that both frightens and irritates Oliver; just another thing he'll have to deal with later.

They stop twice to avoid passers-by, all of whom look nothing like Oliver expected (not including the semi-automatic weapons): these men are not mercenaries, or hired muscle. They're dressed tactically but expensively, which leads him to believe that these men are loyal to their employer and aren't new hires.

Whoever Tennyson really is, he seems to have considerable resources.

Eric makes them wait for what feels like hours before ducking around the last corner and descending four small stairs down into what looks like the belly of the ship. Oh, Oliver does  _not_  like the look of this; if Eric is planning to double cross him or lead him into a trap, then Oliver is going to be hard pressed to get the advantage in these close quarters.

Traps and disadvantages fall away from his thoughts then, because Eric has opened the door at the end of the hallway and all Oliver can think about is Felicity.

She's tucked into the corner farthest from the door, and her expression goes slack as soon as she sets eyes on him. Oliver scans her quickly for injuries, but she seems outwardly fine.

"Oliver?" she questions, her voice small and tremulous. "How?"

Her eyes cut to a spot over his shoulder and Oliver knows that Eric has stepped into the room. Her surprise quickly turns to anger, spots of red blossoming on her cheeks as her mouth works in a silent mimicry of speech. Felicity's reaction – and knowing that they're together and he can keep an eye on her – drives his focus back to the situation.

Oliver spins away from his girlfriend, latching a hand around Eric's arm and pulling him farther into the room before the other man has a chance to register what's happening.

"What are you doing?" he splutters.

"You have about ten seconds to explain what's going on before I break your arm," Oliver hisses.

"I told you, we don't have time for this! If he catches us …"

"Who is 'he'?"

"Kaeden Ellis," Felicity says, before Eric gets the chance.

_Kaeden Ellis_. Oliver's hand goes slack around Eric's arm as the name bounces around in his head, drawing up an image of the polite businessman that Oliver has been meeting with every month for the last … well, however the hell long it's been. Kaeden Ellis is Lord Tennyson; that asshole is responsible for two attacks on Felicity's life, and the reason Digg is currently lying unconscious with a bullet in his shoulder. All the time Oliver has spent looking for the bastard after his girlfriend, and never once had he entertained the notion that the man could be right under his nose, cleverly concealed as a business partner.

"What does he want with Felicity?" he asks, already anticipating the answer.

"She has a book, something of your father's, and he wants it. I don't know why," Eric adds quickly.

"I don't have a book," Felicity tells him angrily, shifting slowly to stand. "Or anything of Mr. Queen's. Why does he think that I do?"

Eric swallows and looks away from her, chagrined. "Because I told him you did. I saw you with it, a little brown book with blank pages. I didn't think anything of it, just mentioned it in passing, and then he got all … I dunno." He finishes with a shrug.

"And who the hell is Kaeden Ellis to you?" Oliver nearly yells, squeezing his arm angrily. "How long have you been feeding him information?"

"I'm not feeding him anything, I swear!" Eric is sincere, Oliver knows, but he's also indignant in the face of the accusation and tries to wrestle his arm out of Oliver's grasp. "It was an accident, I had no idea this would happen!"

"Why did you tell him anything?" Felicity counters.

"He's my dad!" Eric roars in return. The admission startles both Oliver and Felicity, but he doesn't seem to notice. "You don't know what he's like!"

In the silence that follows Eric's statement, Oliver hears the distant sound of voices. He still doesn't trust the kid, but he needs him if he wants to get Felicity and Diggle off this boat.

"Why are you helping us?" Felicity asks then, her expression a mixture of kindness and caution.

"Because he's crazy, and I want out. Father or not."

"And you think we're going to do what, exactly?" Oliver asks, releasing Eric's arm and stepping to Felicity's side finally. He wraps her tightly in his arms and presses a kiss into her hair; a small moment of tenderness to reassure himself that she is there - that they're together again.

"Nothing," Eric answers. "I've already called in an anonymous tip to the police."

Oliver nods and then kisses Felicity once, perhaps a little desperately, and then turns his thoughts back to their safety. He grasps one of his girlfriend's little hands in his, letting her lean some of her weight into him as he leads her to the door.

"Can you get us back to Digg?" he asks Eric.

Eric nods curtly and steps out of the small room and down the hall to scout for passers-by.

"We'll be able to move faster if I carry you," he murmurs to Felicity.

"Yes, but you won't be able to fight if something happens. I'll keep up."

He stares at her for a minute, taking in the determined set of her jaw and the shadow of fear lingering in her blue eyes. Oliver hates that they're here, that he failed to keep his promise and keep her safe; he hates knowing that this is what he brings to her life.

"I'm sorry," he tells her, because he truly, truly is. "I …"

"Oh, no, you don't, Oliver," she retorts, squeezing his hand. "Don't even start that."

"Felicity …"

"No," she interrupts. "Let's focus on getting out of here, okay? We can have this argument at home. After I yell at Pirate for whatever he's done."

She smiles at him, vibrant even amidst the rust and peeling paint of an old cargo ship, and the corners of his mouth twitch in response. That light, floating feeling expands in his chest again, and Oliver swears that as soon as they're out of here - as soon as she's safe - he's going to name it.

He's going to tell her.

But first, he has to get her out of here.

"C'mon," Eric hisses.

Oliver doesn't let go of Felicity's hand as they follow Eric back through the maze of corridors. They have to stop more often, ducking into empty rooms and behind doors to escape the other inhabitants of the ship. Oliver isn't sure if it's because they are moving slower, or if there are more people milling about; he thinks it might be some combination of the two.

"Almost there," Eric mutters.

They turn a corner and Eric literally bumps right into none other than Kaeden Ellis.

As so often happens for Oliver in situations like these, time seems to accelerate around him. He reacts on instinct and muscle memory, dropping Felicity's hand and surging forward just as Kaeden latches a hand around his son's throat and drags him forward. Oliver crashes into them both, knocking Eric to his knees and out of the way; Kaeden is surprised, but recovers quickly and lands a right hook to Oliver's cheek.

Oliver can hear shouting but he's focused on the man in front of him, who is (unfortunately) more fit than he looks. Kaeden knees him in the stomach and as Oliver folds into himself, he catches the glint of a gun being pulled from behind the other man's back. He dives for it, misses, and gets the butt of it jammed into his back; Oliver ignores the jolts of pain as he catches himself and rolls away just in time to miss a kick to the ribs.

This time when he goes for the gun, he manages to catch Kaeden's wrist, and he snaps it by accident as the gun slides away from them; the older man snarls at him and drives the crown of his head into Oliver's chin. Oliver's vision swims and he tries to blink away the tiny spots of light that dance before him.

"Stop!" Felicity yells from somewhere in front of him. "Move again, and I'll shoot you."

Oliver knows his girlfriend, better than he knows probably any other person in his life; he has heard her laughter, seen her tears and felt her anger. But never, in all the time that he has known her, has he seen her like this.

He blinks rapidly to dispel the remaining white spots in his vision. He and Kaeden both have stopped moving, although Oliver still has a hold of his broken wrist; slowly, the other man angles himself sideways so that he can see Felicity. She's standing only a few feet from them, Ellis' discarded gun in her hands and aimed directly at him. Oliver's stomach churns almost painfully; she's standing just the way Digg showed her, the weapon steady in her hands as she stares grimly down the barrel at them.

_No._

"Step away from Oliver," she commands evenly. "Now."

"You don't know how to use that," Kaeden sneers.

"Wanna bet?"

A tense few seconds pass in which Oliver doesn't breathe, and then he lets go of Ellis' wrist as the other man takes a few steps to his left. He can hear the stomp of many feet, undoubtedly Ellis' men drawn to the sounds of their struggle, and isn't surprised when a small contingent of armed men appear not far behind where Felicity and Eric are standing.

"Tell your men to put their guns down," she says without looking. "Or I'll shoot."

"You wouldn't shoot me, Ms. Smoak," Ellis counters.

"You keep underestimating me. You've had me attacked, drugged, and kidnapped. Shooting you would be easy."

Felicity cocks the gun and takes a step toward them.

"Guns down!" Kaeden barks. When his men have complied, he looks over at Eric. "And what about you? You'd just let her shoot me?"

Eric doesn't answer, but his gaze doesn't waver from his father's face. Oliver may have had his problems with his father, and Robert Queen had certainly been far from a hero, but he hadn't been a bad father. Certainly nothing like Kaeden Ellis, who would use his own son to further his plans.

"I'm not surprised," Ellis continues when his son doesn't answer. "You've always been a disappointment. Your mother gave you her last name to hurt me, but it's turned out to be a gift. You are not worthy of the name Ellis." Kaeden turns his attention back to Felicity then. "Your injured ankle? His fault," he tells her, hooking a thumb at Eric.

Oliver bristles at this, remembering how some of the witnesses to the accident had insisted that Eric had tripped her on purpose. He cuts his eyes to the son, who looks simultaneously angry and apologetic; he opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by his father.

"I told him to cause a distraction," Ellis continues. "I needed to get your information off of Oliver's computer, but I needed him out of the office to do it. And what does my idiot son do? Nearly breaks your ankle."

Oliver can see how badly Felicity wants to look at Eric, to ask if what Kaeden is saying is true, but she's afraid to look away from her target.

"I didn't mean to trip you," Eric assures her. "Honestly. I was trying to get to the server room so I could trip an alarm. We may not always get a long, Felicity, but I would never hurt you on purpose."

Oliver hears it first: the whir of helicopter blades. He glances skyward, looking for the origin of the noise, and spots it as it approaches from the aft of the ship.

He's never been happier to see the police.

Everything goes to hell in slow motion, then. In the moment that Oliver's gaze drops back to the people on the ship, he sees it all: Felicity has looked away from Ellis and up at the helicopter, and in that split second the other man is charging toward her. Eric, who has also seen what's about to happen, moves just as Oliver does; they are three points of motion, converging on the same spot.

They are all moving straight for Felicity.

Someone is calling over a bullhorn for everyone to drop their weapons and stand down just as a shot rings out, muffled by the sound of the helicopter overhead and yet still terrible. Oliver's heart lurches painfully, a wild animal trying to claw its way out of his chest.

Eric comes to an abrupt halt, eyes wide and shocked. Oliver is still moving forward and suddenly finds his arms full of Kaeden Ellis, who falls unceremoniously against him. Oliver glances down automatically, horrified by the implications of what's just happened: Felicity shot him.

Blood blooms against Ellis' clothes like a grotesque flower, but Oliver feels a hot bolt of relief surge through him: the blood is coming from his leg. She shot him in the leg.

Oliver drops Ellis and moves to Felicity without a backward glance. Police are swarming the ship as he takes the gun from her unresisting hands, passing it off to Eric before almost smashing her against him. She smells a little like gunpowder, but he doesn't care; she's alive and safe against him, and that's enough. He rubs a hand across her back in wide circles, noting the way she's shaking, and then pulls back enough to look at her.

"I said I'd shoot him," she says dryly, her face pale. "I didn't say I'd kill him."

He recognizes it as gallows humor, a bid to stave off the panic that she's certainly entitled to feel, and knows that he probably shouldn't laugh, but can't help it. Oliver kisses her, firmly and repeatedly, until none other than Detective Lance appears at their sides.

"Are you alright?" he queries.

"For the most part," Felicity answers.

"Diggle's been shot," Oliver replies, "He needs medical attention."

"Where is he?" Lance asks as he waves over a man in a red and white uniform.

"I'll show you," Eric offers as he steps forward.

"Oh, no," Lance starts, only to be interrupted by Felicity.

"He saved our lives, Detective," she says. Then, with a watery smile that still manages to be teasing, "just don't let him trip you on the way there."

Eric and the Detective disappear, and Oliver allows another officer to lead them away from where Ellis is sitting on the deck, cuffed and glaring mightily at them while a paramedic cares for his leg.

"I need a bath," Felicity grumbles, looking down at raw palms. "And lots of ice cream."

"What happened to your hands?" Oliver inquires, taking her carefully by the wrists to look at them.

"Fell. It's nothing, Oliver. I just want to go home. What about Digg? How bad is he hurt?"

"Badly enough, but he'll be okay. The paramedics will take him to the hospital and he'll be up and kicking my ass in no time."

Oliver lets go of her wrists in answer to her tug, and then sighs as her arms wrap around his waist and her forehead comes to rest against his chest.

He holds her a little too tightly. "I'm sorry, Felicity."

"Don't be. You came for me," she whispers against him.

Oliver's heart clenches and swoops a little, at once painful and pleasant. "I'll always come for you," he answers, silently mourning the idea that something like this might happen again.

"Can we go home? I think I'd like to take a nap."

"Just a nap?"

"A nap," Felicity reiterates. "Just a little one; twenty four hours should be enough."

Oliver chuckles and closes his eyes as he tucks a cheek against her hair. "A nap sounds perfect. But I should warn you, once I get you into bed, I'm never gonna let you out of it."

"Mm, sounds like a deal."

He wonders how long it's gonna take her to figure out that he's only partially joking.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys ... this is it. This is the last chapter. I want to say thank you one last time, for all of your wonderful support and reviews and patience for the (sometimes horrific) delays in updating. This has been quite the journey and learning experience for me, and you all have made it a wonderful experience. Thank you so much for giving this story a chance and sticking with it, and I hope you've enjoyed it. All my love.

**_Epilogue_ **

A petulant meow and familiar weight on her chest is what finally pulls Felicity from her slumber. She cracks one eye open just enough to see Pirate, who is staring at her with feline patience that looks frighteningly like condescension; she mumbles incoherently at him in a failed attempt to tell him to go away. The kitten just blinks at her.

Felicity turns onto her side and into the warmth of Oliver's chest, doing her best to ignore Pirate as he crawls onto her pillow and settles in her hair. A soft huff of laughter tells her that Oliver is awake, but their bed is warm and ridiculously comfortable and she thinks they should just spend the day in it. The outside world and diva kittens be damned.

Then, without moving, Pirate begins chewing on her hair.

"Damn cat," she grumbles, tucking even farther into Oliver.

"I think he's hungry," Oliver says, his voice husky and quiet. She loves it when he sounds like that.

"Tell him to forage for food." She pulls the duvet higher up onto her shoulder. "Make his wild cousins proud."

"The last time he did that you threatened to skin him alive."

"Well, this time I'm giving him permission."

Felicity stretches herself out against her boyfriend, tangling her feet around his legs at the calves and sighing contentedly when he wraps an arm around her waist and holds her tightly. Yep, her mind is made up: they're staying in bed all day. Food and bathroom breaks are the only acceptable deviation to the plan.

She's already well on her way to dozing off again when Oliver pulls her back to the waking world.

"Felicity?"

"Hmm?"

He's quiet for so long that she slides her head back on the pillow, once again dislodging Pirate, so that she can look him in the eye. Oddly enough, he looks nervous; beneath that, he looks … shy.

_Shy?_

"I love you."

Felicity has purposely steered herself away from thinking about this very moment, or any moment like it, for pretty much their entire relationship. Oliver is someone who loves deeply, but quietly – he does not easily (or often) voice his affection for anyone. She knows this, understands it, and has become well versed in recognizing all of the non-verbal ways that he expresses his love; she sees it most often directed at Thea. Which is why, hearing the words now, she isn't surprised. Felicity knows that Oliver loves her - has known it for a while.

So she feels no surprise; only a pure, breath taking joy that blooms in her heart and spreads to every inch of her being, a dazzling light that illuminates her from the inside out. She doesn't hesitate.

"I love you too," Felicity answers, breathless, and then virtually pounces on him in her sudden need to kiss him.

She peppers him with kisses until he's laughing beneath her lips and then she can't contain her own laughter.

True to her plan, they don't get out of bed that day.

* * *

Just before Christmas, Oliver comes home with a mischievous grin and a surprise. When he tells her to take a seat and close her eyes, Felicity directs a very pointed glance at Pirate, who is sitting on the arm of the couch after she has tested out her healed ankle by rage chasing him through the apartment. Oliver laughs and reassures her that it's not another animal – because, really, they couldn't handle another one – so she obliges him.

The couch dips under his weight as he seats himself next to her; moments later he tells her it's safe to open her eyes.

Oliver is holding a strange, but very beautiful, pair of ceramic cups. She thinks they must be hand painted because the details are small and intricate, and stunning; they are painted in pastel shades of what looks to be Japanese calligraphy. What makes them strange are the lines of gold that run through the design, haphazard and obviously not part of the original design. The lines aren't uniform, and different from one cup to the other, but she can't find them anything but beautiful. The gold shimmers warmly under the light.

"They're beautiful," she tells him. Her confusion must show on her face, though, because Oliver grins and pulls her into his side with the hand that isn't holding the delicate objects.

"These are very special cups," he tells her. "But before I tell you about them, I'm going to tell you about something else: you."

"Me?" Felicity repeats.

"You. I know that you've been having a hard time dealing with everything that's happened to you in the last few months, and I wish I could fix everything for you; I wish that I could rewind time and make it so that none of that happened. I wish I could promise that it'll never happen again – but I can't."

"Oliver …"

"Shh," he silences her and then kisses her quickly before continuing. "I'm not done. You told me once that you feel … damaged. Broken. And that you're not sure how to fix it. But I'm here to tell you that you, Felicity Smoak, are nothing less than beautiful; that I love you, and that if you really are broken – which I will never believe, by the way – that doesn't mean that you are  _less_."

Felicity stares at him through the tears that are brimming in her eyes, dangerously close to tripping down her cheeks; she has no idea what to say, which is good, since he doesn't seem to be done yet. Oliver shifts a little next to her, taking one cup in either hand and holding them up for her to look at.

"The Japanese have this practice, it's called  _kintsugi,_  and it's the practice of fixing broken ceramics by filling the cracks with gold. They do this because they believe that when something has suffered damage and has a history, it becomes more beautiful – more precious."

She is crying openly now, and having a hard time keeping the air in her lungs as she absorbs what he's saying, because she thinks she knows where this is going.

"I got one for each of us," Oliver continues, and now he sounds choked up as well. "Because I want you to look at them and remember. Whenever you feel sad, or doubtful, I want you to remember that you saved me – that you save me everyday, in more ways than I can possibly count;  _you_  are my gold. I want you to remember that I love you."

She kisses him soundly; cradling his strong jaw in both of her palms and pouring every emotion she's feeling into the slide of her lips against his. Words are not enough – will never be enough – to tell him how profoundly she loves him, so she must supplement her meager vocabulary with actions.

When Felicity finally allows him to pull away, he rests his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the space between them.

Oliver's voice is barely above a whisper when he continues. "And when you start to wonder if you're broken, if maybe you're just damaged beyond repair, I want you to look at these cups and see yourself the way I do: not broken, but filled with gold."

* * *

Felicity never forgets, and when they marry a few years later – after she has finally gotten him to agree to keep her ring within a reasonable cost and size – her heart swells in almost painful happiness when she finds that her band has been engraved with three small words.

_Filled with Gold._


End file.
